The Falconess
by LeggoMyMeggo92
Summary: Saoirse Arryn is not an ambitious woman. She has no desire to lead a country. But when her father Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, suddenly dies, she has no choice but to assume his duties. How will she fare in the Game of Thrones, especially when she never wanted to be involved in the first place? Various pairings, mostly JaimexOC, Read and Review! Rated T for now, possibly M later
1. Her Father's Daughter

_Saoirse_

Saoirse had her fingers tented in front of her, Arryn blue eyes narrowed as she listened to Littlefinger explain the crown's debts for the umpteenth time. The King sat at the head of the table, clearly not listening as he dug the dirt from under his fingernails with a knife. His assigned Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, nobly stood against the wall behind his king. In the sunlight of the room his blonde hair practically glowed and she had to tear her eyes away from him for fear of going blind.

She could feel Grand Maester Pycelle's eyes boring into the side of her face; he had always disapproved of her being in the meetings simply because of her gender. She knew it was only a matter of time before he voiced his disapproval.

As if on cue, the old man cleared his throat and adjusted himself in his seat, "I am not sure if we should be divulging such intimate information for those who are not members of the council."

Saoirse rolled her eyes and dropped her hands to her lap, "Things being what they are, Grand Maester, my father is unable to leave his sickbed and sent me in his stead. If you would shuffle on off to your library full of books and figure out a way to cure him, you wouldn't have to suffer my presence." She stared him down and watched him bristle at the accusation of incompetence. She felt a flicker of pride at being able to make him squirm.

"I assure you, my lady, I am doing everything I can for Lord Arryn."

"If that were true and you truly were a _Grand_ Maester, my father would be here instead of me. Please continue, Lord Baelish." She said politely, folding her hands on the table in front of her. If she wasn't mistaken, she heard Jaime Lannister stifle a laugh.

"Damn this inanity! There is more to life than counting coppers! Sair, I'll be in my chambers if anything important comes about." King Robert hoisted himself from his chair and looked pointedly at her, a teasing smile in his eyes, "Although I highly doubt it will."

She smiled back to the man she considered an older brother. She had been four years old when Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had arrived to be fostered at her father's home, the Eyrie. She would follow them around the mountaintop castle, demanding they play knights and damsels with her until they relented. Since his hair was longer and he had a better flair for dramatics, Robert had often been the damsel for Ned and Saoirse to save. They were all very fond of each other, Robert and Saoirse and Ned, and remained that way during and after the rebellion.

"Come, Lannister!" Robert demanded of Jaime as he bustled out of the room, which fell into an awkward silence with the sudden departure. Saoirse was the first to break the silence by standing and clearing her throat.

"I think that's enough for today. Thank you, my lords. I will see you three days hence when we reconvene." She lifted herself to her feet and left the room without so much as a glance over her shoulder, Ser Hugh following closely behind her. In truth, she hadn't been focused on the meeting at all. Her mind had been with her ailing father, Jon Arryn, in the Tower of the Hand, where she was headed now.

She climbed the tower's stairs, pausing outside her half-brother's chambers when she thought she heard him crying out, but it was just her stepmother, Lysa, singing to him. Saoirse cringed at the ghastly sound and continued upward to her father's chamber. Ser Vardis Egen stood guard outside and nodded to her as he opened the door, his gruff voice muttering a respectful, "My lady," as she passed.

The room was dark and stifling hot, lit by no more than a pair of candles. Saoirse thought her father asleep and turned to leave when she heard him rasp her name.

"Saoirse, come here my girl."

She did as she was bid and sat in the chair next to his bed, no doubt put there by Maester Colemon.

"I'm here, Father. I've just come from the Small Council – "

"Hush, girl, I do not wish to hear. I must tell you some things before…before…"

"Before what, Father?" she asked, placing a hand on his. He was scorching hot. She had half a mind to open the window.

"I fear I am not long for this world…"

"Father, I do not wish to hear that!"

"Hush and listen! I am dying, Saoirse."

"No! No you're not! You're just ill! You'll be fine!" she sprung up from her seat and backed away from him, moving to open the window. She paused there before opening it, feeling the sea breeze on her face and wishing more than anything to be on a ship, riding away from her problems.

"Whatever happens, you must get Robert to put you on the Small Council, bring me that scroll on the table." He weakly gestured to the small table in the corner and Saoirse rose from her seat, picking up the only scroll she could see amidst the debris from various potions and poultices. A pang reverberated through her torso; her father was old, to be sure, but he had been healthy as a horse. This illness was sudden and severe and for a brief moment Saoirse realized that she just might lose her father.

She let that thought go almost instantly; the combined knowledge of Maester Colemon and Grand Maester Pycelle would surely save him, she thought as she unrolled the paper.

"I, Jon Arryn, being of sound mind at the time of this writing, do hereby formally suggest to Robert Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, that on the occasion of my demise that my daughter, Saoirse Arryn, be named Hand of the King until such a time that a replacement can be found. Additionally, I suggest that if she performs her duties as Hand sufficiently that she be granted the position of Royal Advisor and retain a seat on the Small Council with a stipend of no less than…Father, that number can't be right!" she read aloud, tears brimming her eyes. The letter was signed by her father, Maester Colemon, and Ser Vargis.

"Five thousand golden dragons per annum. More than fair to put up with Robert, I assure you." Her father smiled at her from his sickbed. Even in the dim light of the room, she could tell he was a sickly gray color. He looked weak, as if his age was catching up with him.

"Father, why are you doing this?"

"I want you to be taken care of after I'm gone. And since you will never marry, and young Robert is my legal heir, I can't think of another option more suitable."

The tears spilled down her cheeks and she nodded, resuming her seat next to her father. With great effort, he moved his hand on top of hers and attempted to comfort her.

"Saoirse, I hope that you realize…I love you more than anything. If I could name you my sole heir I would but…"

"The law is the law." She sniffled, wiping away some of her tears.

"Go give that to Robert, and he will take care of you."

"Promise to still be here when I get back?" she asked, only half-joking with him.

He smiled a feeble smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I promise."

She rose to her feet once more and kissed her father's forehead, "I love you, Father. Thank you." She whispered to him before taking her leave.

She was loath to leave the room, but she realized the urgency of her father's request. If she presented it to the king after her father's passing, the legitimacy of the letter would be called into question, something she could ill afford. She made her way through the afternoon sunshine to King Robert's chambers, hoping to find him in a cheerful disposition.

* * *

 _Jaime_

It was one of those days where Ser Jaime's mind drifted to tempting thoughts about turning in his white cloak and giving his father the heir he desired. He would be Lord of Casterly Rock then, upon his father's demise. He'd take a pretty little wife, put a few children in her, and grow old in his childhood home.

That scenario was much more pleasurable than the one he currently found himself in. Robert had taken an afternoon whore, finished within ten minutes with his usual haggard grunt, and was now drunkenly singing chorus after chorus of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," all while making Ser Jaime listen at the door. Ser Barristan Selmy had ducked away for a few minutes, citing a call of nature.

The knight leaned lazily against the cool marble wall behind him, one hand on his sword and eyes scanning the corridor for any disturbance. There was none, so he sighed and let his head drop and his mind wander.

"Ser Jaime?" a familiar voice pulled him out of his musings and he raised his head to see the lovely Saoirse Arryn standing in front of him expectantly.

"He's busy, if you can't hear." Jaime drawled, flicking his eyes in the direction of the door.

"Is he alone? I have something rather urgent to speak with him about." Her face was pale and she held a small scroll delicately in her left hand.

Jaime sighed, "I will announce you." He pushed himself off the wall and pounded on the door before entering. The king was filling his goblet with yet another cup of wine, humming a tune to himself. The whore had been dismissed, so the king was alone.

"Lady Saoirse Arryn to see you, Your Grace." Jaime said a bit louder than was necessary, as it was the afternoon and the king would be beginning a slight hangover from that morning's indulgences.

"Seven hells, Kingslayer, no need to shout! Send her in." the king blared irritably, gesturing with the hand that did not hold his goblet.

Jaime stepped out of the room and bowed to Saoirse, extending an arm so as to usher into the room. She thanked him quietly and shut the door behind her so Jaime was once again left alone.

This time his thoughts drifted to the young woman who had just passed him. He had always somewhat admired the young falconess. She often held her father's seat the Small Council, a beautiful young woman of four-and-twenty with no husband and no prospects. Why? Everyone in King's Landing knew the truth due to the dramatic events of seven years prior. A visiting knight from the Riverlands, Ser Josef Nayland, had raped Saoirse. Jaime had caught him in the act and delivered the gods' justice by running him through with his sword at least a dozen times, but the damage was already done. Saoirse was no longer a maiden.

In terms of vengeance, the gods had been on Saoirse's side. Before the debacle, she had been betrothed to Willas Tyrell. After news of her despoilment, Mace Tyrell called off the engagement. Once the word got out, it appeared that her other prospects were bleak, so her father sent her away on a tour of Dorne.

By Jaime's estimation she had come back a completely different woman. She had left the Red Keep as the girl who forgave him, innocent with an almost childlike frailty that had come from too many nights spent in the library and skipping a few too many meals, but she returned a fully-realized woman with strong, lithe limbs and a new hardness in her eyes. A small trace of the girl remained, but the woman prevailed.

After her return, men seemed to gravitate toward her despite the fact that she was no longer marriageable. Perhaps that was part of her appeal; like a whore, a man could have his fun with her and then leave her by the wayside, but because of her title they could feel prideful about it. That thought irked Jaime the most and he was quick to reprimand those he overheard speaking indecorously of the young Lady Arryn, usually with a swift backhand.

Because the truth was that Jaime had killed her rapist not out of chivalry like most everyone thought but because he held deep, confusing, and frustrating affections for Saoirse. He had since their first meeting, just after she had arrived from the Vale. She unexpectedly disappeared and the castle was set to searching for her. Jaime was strolling through the halls aimlessly, half-heartedly looking for the child when he poked his head into the library.

The girl was splayed out on the floor, holding a book in the air above her face, her Arryn blue eyes devouring the words in front of her. She was no more than ten years old, a bit lanky for her age, and paid him no mind as he strode over to her, armor clinking noisily as he approached. He stood above her looking down expectantly, but her eyes remained on her book.

"Did my father send you, Ser Jaime?" she asked, a bored tone in her child's voice.

"You know who I am?" he queried bemusedly as he shifted his weight to his right foot, lazily perching his left hand on the hilt of his sword. She had caught him unawares, but he wasn't going to show it.

"Everyone knows who you are."

"And who am I?" Jaime was toying with her now, wanting to catch her off guard as she had caught him.

She closed the book and sat up, crossing her legs in front of her. "You're Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer."

Jaime felt a familiar flash of anger at his recent moniker and his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he forced himself to relax and centered himself once more. She was just a child, after all.

"Yes, well it seems you have an advantage on me, for you know my name but I do not know yours." He pulled the corner of his mouth back in a half-smile but she just continued to stare at him blankly.

"I don't think so. I think you heard my name but forgot it because Ser Jaime Lannister has better things to occupy him mind than the names of young ladies at court." Her expression didn't change while she chided him. No smile, no flash in her eyes, not even the flicker of a smirk.

Jaime's half-smile grew until it split his face open and he laughed heartily.

"We have only just met, young Lady Arryn, but you've got me pegged!" his amusement boomed through his laughter and once his mirth subsided he knelt down so he was eye level with her, "I do apologize for my rudeness, but might I hear your name one more time? I swear on my honor that I will not forget it this time."

She paused as if trying to decide whether or not he was serious before saying, "Saoirse."

"That is a beautiful name. I shall commit it to memory." He lifted himself back up, as the stone floor had been pushing on a bruise he'd received in the yard a few days ago. "Now, Saoirse, we should go find your family. Your father and stepmother are very worried about you."

The girl followed him out of the library and down the hall silently before asking, "Ser Jaime?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you kill the King?"

The question was so blunt that Jaime nearly staggered back as he stopped in his tracks. It occurred to him that no one had really asked him that question. Surely, they'd asked how and when and but the why was always ignored. People figured they already knew or could guess at why, and those who rose to power in the aftermath seemed to choose not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"How old are you?" he asked her, not willing to divulge such dark information and spoil her blissful childhood.

"Nearly eleven."

"I killed the king because he was mad. He was going to…do a very bad thing and I had to stop him." Jaime stuttered, not knowing what words to use.

The girl's face darkened again and she looked to the ground pensively, "He was going to burn the city down, wasn't he?"

"Now how do you know that?" Jaime tried not to let on that her assumption was correct lest she go blabbing to her father.

"He was a Targaryen, a dragon, and dragons have fire. If a dragon goes mad he burns things. There are lots of stories like that." She explained with an easy shrug of her shoulders. "And in all the stories a handsome knight slays the dragon. So you were just doing your job. I don't see what all the fuss is about."

Jaime was taken aback. A girl of ten understood what the entire realm could not; that Jaime had saved thousands of lives by taking the life of his king. What many people saw as an attempt to please his father, this girl knew to be a noble act. The act of a handsome knight of legend. He laughed at the thought, but quickly changed the subject.

"You think I'm handsome?" he teased, raising one of his eyebrows. He knew it was inappropriate to be flirting with a girl her age and the daughter of the King's Hand, but it was harmless. She probably didn't even like boys yet.

"Don't flatter yourself, Ser." She crossed her arms across her chest defiantly, "I don't even like boys yet."

Jaime laughed harder at this and then he knew; this girl was special. She was different. She may even turn some heads someday.

Little did he know that one of those heads would be his own. Even before her time in Dorne, she was incredibly beautiful. Her blonde hair was light, somewhere between the gold tones of the Lannisters and white of the Targaryens. She usually kept it braided back, but on cooler days she would wear it loose about her shoulders. Her icy blue eyes and aquiline nose were delicate and pretty, and her body was athletic but small.

That body that had inspired many a crude jape now whipped past him, her delicate hands wiping her face. Jaime could hear her sniffling and took a few steps to catch up with her, grabbing her elbow.

"Saoirse, what's wrong? What did he do?" he asked, concern marking his face. Her skin was warm under his touch.

"It's nothing, Ser Jaime. Please, I must get back to my father." She pulled her arm out of his grasp and continued away from him.

"Lannister! Get your golden arse in here!" the king roared from inside his chambers, which prevented Jaime from following her. He sighed and entered the room that stank of wine, sweat, and sex. The smell always made Jaime nearly gag and wish for an opened window, but he never let on.

"How may I be of service, Your Grace?" he asked in what he had meant to be a congenial manner, but it came out of his mouth as sardonic.

"You are a learned man, Lannister?" The king asked from his seat next to his great table, one hand cupping a goblet and the other scratching his amble gut.

"More than some, much less than others Your Grace."

"Tell me, has there ever been a female Hand of the King?"

Jaime paused, thinking back over as much of his history lessons as he could, "No, your grace, I do not think so."

The King grunted and paused, as if in deliberation, "Get me Renly."

"I shall summon him, Your Grace." Jaime gave a short bow and left the room, stationing Ser Barristan Selmy on the door while he ran that particular errand.

A female Hand? Surely there had never been one. Indeed, Jaime was sure that there hadn't so much as been a woman on the Small Council. At least not since the earliest Targaryens. Was that what had Saoirse asked the king? To become Hand if her father passed on? No, Saoirse wasn't that ambitious. She took pleasure in books and travel and, occasionally, dancing and watching tourneys. Not governing.

He had heard of Lord Arryn's ailing health only that morning, surely he couldn't be that close to death? Jon Arryn was an ox among men, with the strength and stamina of a much younger man and the wisdom of a hundred maesters. Jaime had respected the Hand of the King, especially after Saoirse's rape when he started showing Jaime more respect.

He approached Lord Renly's door and knocked loudly, interrupting laughter from inside. His squire, Ser Loras, answered.

"The King wishes to see Lord Renly in his chambers."

"He will be along." The pretty boy said, closing the door a bit too quickly not to arouse suspicion. Not that Jaime cared about what Renly Baratheon the peacock did behind closed doors, but he knew others would.

The King's brother stepped out of the room quickly, straightening his fine velvet doublet before following Jaime. They made polite chit chat about the weather on their way, and when they reached Ser Barristan the older knight elected to announce. He, unlike Jaime, did seem to care about Renly's bedroom antics and avoided him as much as possible.

Renly disappeared into the room and the two Kingsguard stood in silence.

"Are you on guard tonight as well?" Ser Barristan asked casually.

Jaime inclined his head to his Lord Commander, "I've got the night off, actually. I was going to visit Lord Arryn, pay my respects."

Ser Barristan snorted, "To him or his daughter?"

"Lord Arryn has been a most capable Hand. He deserves much more respect than I think he gets."

"Right. Give him my best." Ser Barristan looked as if he didn't quite believe Jaime's reasoning, but didn't push the matter further.

"I will, Lord Commander."

An hour later, Renly left the King's chamber with a scroll he hadn't entered with and headed off in the direction of the Tower of the Hand. The preening peacock looked as if the King had ruffled his feathers a bit, as was wont to happen when King Robert was alone with his younger brother. About an hour after that, Ser Barristan dismissed Jaime as the sun had started its descent. He bid his Lord Commander a good night and started off in the same direction Lord Renly had gone.

He approached the Tower of the Hand and could already tell something was very wrong. He thought he could hear shrill screaming coming from the uppermost windows, no doubt Lord Arryn's shrew of a third wife. Jaime asked one of the Arryn household guard what was going on and the grey-eyed knight answered him dolefully.

"Ser, Lord Arryn died not ten minutes ago."

Jaime's heart sunk; he was too late to pay his respects to a man who had, for the most part, always respected him. Then his thoughts snapped to the other reason (and, if he was honest with himself, the real reason) he was visiting the Tower that night; Saoirse.

"I wish to see Lady Saoirse." He said in his most commanding voice. He was Kingsguard after all, he outranked them. They had to let him pass. Jaime's resolute look didn't falter, and the guards stepped aside.

Jaime bounded up the winding stairs, the screaming becoming clearer.

"HOW COULD HE LEAVE US LIKE THIS?! HIS SON NEEDS HIM! THAT SELFISH MAN, THAT SELFISH, SELFISH MAN!" Lysa Arryn screams echoed down the tower and Jaime slowed his ascent, not at all eager to reach the top and encounter the freshly made widow.

To his surprise, he found Saoirse curled up on the stairs about one-third of the way from the top of the tower and the Hand's chambers. She was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands clamped over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut like a child trying to shut out the world around her. It didn't take him long to guess as to why.

He approached her softly and gently placed his hands on her wrists. She jumped a bit at the physical contact with an unknown person, and her blue eyes opened. Her face was red and blotchy, she'd obviously been crying. Once she recognized him her body relaxed enough for her to throw her arms about his neck and bury her face in his armor.

All he could think to do was wrap his arms around her in return as she cried. He pushed her away slightly and slid one arm under her bent knees, lifting her up in his strong arms and carrying her down to her chambers. He ignored the looks he received from Ser Vardis Egen, never having cared much for the rock-faced knight.

He placed Saoirse in a chair by her window and moved away from her, unstrapping his armor. If she was going to continue crying on his shoulder he figured it would be easier if that shoulder wasn't encased in metal and leathers.

She didn't ask what he was doing; she just stared blankly at him. Slowly, she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, still staring at Jaime. He moved over to her and gingerly brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face.

"Saoirse, I'm – "

She interrupted him by putting a finger over his lips, effectively silencing him as she unfurled from her tightly closed position.

"Don't." she whispered, quickly replacing her finger with her lips.

It was not the first kiss they'd shared, but Jaime was still surprised. He pulled away, but she reached a hand through his thick hair, holding the back of his head in position. Surrendering to it, he cupped her cheek and deepened the kiss, placing his other hand on her waist. Her hair smelled like lilies and her skin smelled like citrus. He could feel himself harden as she whimpered slightly. Jaime wanted nothing more than to move her to the bed and make her forget about her troubled, but before he could take his actions further, someone started pounding on the door.

"Lady Saoirse, your stepmother wishes to see you." Ser Vardis's voice rang through the door. Saoirse pulled away and rested her forehead against Jaime's.

"What does that horrid shrew want?" she asked loudly but not moving from her spot.

"She didn't say, my lady, but she was rather insistent."

"Don't go." Jaime whispered. He didn't want her to go; he wanted to continue kissing her.

"I have to." She whispered back. He could see in her eyes that she wanted what he did, but she had an obligation to her family at the moment.

Jaime nodded, not happy about having their exploits interrupted but understanding why. The next few days would be hectic for everyone in the castle as Lord Arryn's funeral was arranged, so, taking advantage of his last chance, he kissed her again and let a hand gently cup one of her breasts, making her moan ruefully as she pulled away.

She left without a word, following Ser Vardis up toward her screaming stepmother and leaving Ser Jaime to sneak out of her chambers and down the stairs, out into the night.

The knight appreciated the chill in the breeze, it cooled the fire she ignited in him. His walk back to the White Tower was a bit awkward, being as stiff as he was, but no one bothered him.

He reached his chambers and fell onto his soft bed, sighing loudly.

That night, he dreamt of her. As he did most nights. That was the only way he could have her. For now, at least.

And for now, it was enough.

* * *

 **Hey all! This is my second GOT fanfiction, and updates will be pretty slow as I've got a few other stories I'm working on. Right now, I'm throwing out a bunch of new stories to see which ones people like the most, so if you want me to continue Follow, Favorite, but most of all REVIEW!**

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	2. Seven Years Prior

_Seven Years Prior_

 _The Hand of the King_

Jon Arryn looked down at his daughter as Grand Maester Pycelle tended to her wounds. Contusions on her wrists and thighs, a split lip that refused to stop trembling. He felt a rush of anger at the man who attacked her but took solace in the fact that he was dead. The Lord of the Eyrie bristled at the fact that the Kingslayer had been the one who killed the assailant, and made a mental note to thank the gilded lion in no small manner. Perhaps a new sword or an impressive mount would do the trick.

Saoirse, who had begun to cry, interrupted Lord Arryn's thoughts. Jon rushed to her side and gingerly placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. In that moment she looked as small and scared as she had upon her birth, and this melted her father's heart. True, he had not loved the girl's mother (his second wife, Morgana), but from the moment his daughter had been born she had him wrapped around her finger. He would do anything she asked of him, and seeing her like this was tearing him apart.

"Saoirse, my girl," he said comfortingly before shushing her in a gentle tone. "He is dead. This is all over."

She sniffled and lifted her head from her father's chest and used her sleeve to rub her nose, "No, it's not. I am ruined, Father. The only lords who will want me will be old or cruel or both. Please," she looked at him with her large tear-filled eyes, "don't turn me into Lysa." She whispered.

Lord Arryn's heart shattered. Saoirse was young and beautiful and had a life full of promise, but she was correct. No lord would consent to marrying his son to a woman so despoiled, which was precisely why Jon Arryn had consented to marrying Lysa Tully. He had needed a male heir and Lysa had been young enough to bear him one, but their marriage was devoid of affection (and, thus far, devoid of an heir). Saoirse deserved more than a loveless marriage to a lord thrice her age that thought of her as Jon thought of Lysa. She deserved love, or warmth at the very least.

"I would never do that to you, my sweet. I will think of something." He promised, planting a small kiss on his daughter's temple. She wrapped her arms around his neck suddenly and buried her face in his chest once more, sobbing uncontrollably. He let her weep until the Grand Maester insisted she get some sleep, offering her dreamwine, which she gladly accepted.

As he stepped out of his daughter's chamber he was surprised to find Ser Jaime Lannister slumped against the opposite wall, looking at the door expectantly. The Lord Hand nodded to the golden knight.

"Ser Jaime." He said curtly, "I cannot express my gratitude for your actions today. You saved my daughter's life. I am afraid I cannot ever repay that sort of debt."

"I am only sorry I did not arrive sooner, my lord. I could've saved her from losing her maidenhood – "

"Ser Jaime, I would much prefer that you not mention or even think of my daughter's maidenhood." The falcon said sharply.

"Apologies, my lord. I was merely expressing a regret." The lion mumbled.

"What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be guarding the king?"

"In truth I was hoping to see her, my lord. Offer my condolences in person." The lion straightened up boldly, looking the falcon straight in the eye for the first time that night.

"You've done enough, Kingsl- Ser Jaime. She is asleep and her attacker is dead, that is the best we can hope for tonight." Jon Arryn said wearily, catching himself before addressing the knight by his unsavory nickname. He made another mental note to desist with calling him "Kingslayer" as a courtesy for what he did for Saoirse.

The knight nodded, a look of disappointment crossing his noble features, and gave a quick bow before turning and striding down the hall. Lord Arryn sighed and trudged up to his chambers, hoping for a hot bath and a warm bed. Instead he found his wife Lysa sitting in a chair pointed toward the door, smirking at him from over a glass of wine.

"What is it, woman?" he demanded irritably, finding her smirk unsettling.

"How does your daughter fare, my lord?" she asked knowingly.

"She has been attacked. Her maidenhead is gone, but she will recover."

Lysa's smirk grew to a wolfish grin, "Her reputation will not. It seems now that she is unfit to wed that Tyrell heir."

Arryn tensed. Lysa had been unhappy about the match Jon had made for Saoirse; mostly because she had always been jealous of Jon's affection for his daughter. She felt she had been cheated out of all the advantages that Jon bestowed upon Saoirse. His petty wife was jealous that her own father hadn't loved her enough to make a better match for her.

"Now your sweet little girl will be left with no other choice but to marry a bitter old man like you." She was gloating as she rose from her chair and crossed to her husband, placing a hopeful hand on his shoulder.

Was she mad? How could she think he'd want to have her after insulting Saoirse like that? He whirled around and gripped her wrist tightly.

"How _dare_ you think I would condemn my daughter to a fate such as yours, you hateful, barren cow!" He pushed her away forcefully and she landed in the chair she started in, "You were a desperate whore that willingly opened her legs. My daughter was _raped!_ And if you ever insult her honor like that again I will have you locked away in the Eyrie, heir or no heir!" he bellowed at her as she stared up at him with fright in her eyes. For such an even-keeled man, Jon Arryn could truly cause terror when he wanted to.

"Now get out of my sight. I will summon you if I wish to see you again." He muttered, running a hand through his thinning blonde hair as he sat on the edge of his bed and waited for his wife to comply. Lysa shakily rose from the chair and fled the room, not wishing to incite her husband's anger any further.

Jon sighed loudly and began to ponder his daughter's fate while crossing to his desk. Her marriage to Willas Tyrell could still happen, for Mace Tyrell was an understanding (if a bit oafish) man, and on their last visit to the capital it seemed that Willas was quite taken with Saoirse. He briefly considered keeping the news to himself, but honor wouldn't allow him. All Jon could do was inform the Tyrells of the news and hope they wouldn't back out. Perhaps if he proposed a postponement?

He slammed his fists against the desk in frustration. He hated feeling this mix of white-hot hate and sadness and worry. What sort of father was he to let this happen? What sort of father had to depend on the likes of the _Kingslayer_ to save his daughter? He hated himself at that moment because he realized that he had failed her.

Jon Arryn had never been one for excessive drink, but that night he had one of his attendants bring him a flagon of Dornish red.

He did not sleep that night.

* * *

 _Saoirse_

It took ten days for Saoirse to rise from her sickbed and venture out into the gardens. She desperately wanted to visit the library, but she couldn't face passing that spot in the hallway yet. Instead she'd had her maids set her up on the terrace overlooking the sea in the garden, with Ser Hugh standing guard not far away.

She sat quietly, a book open on her lap but her eyes fixed on the sea. She had sent her maids away and knew she must look frightful, but she didn't care about her looks just now. She didn't feel anything but numb.

The bruises on her wrists and thighs had mostly healed, but the bite marks on her neck from his horrid teeth were a sickly shade of yellowish green. Her lip was healing nicely with the help of some salve from Maester Coleman and the dreamwine helped to keep the nightmares at bay.

Her father had sent a raven to Highgarden the night of her attack and had yet to hear back. Saoirse had a sinking feeling in her stomach that she would soon be released from her engagement to Willas. Her father promised not to condemn her to her stepmother's fate, but what was to become of her otherwise? They hadn't spoken about it since the incident, but she could tell he had a plan; her father always had a plan.

Saoirse heard footsteps approach from behind her and she stayed still, closing the book on her lap and gripping it tightly in both hands, ready to use it as a weapon. A familiar voice relaxed her grip.

"Lady Saoirse." Jaime said quietly, maintaining a respectable distance between them.

She turned slowly and looked at him, a calm spreading through her body. It had been ten days since he'd saved her and in that time the only people she'd seen were her father, Maester, and handmaids. Seeing a fresh face was comforting, especially since it belonged to her savior.

"Ser Jaime," She said, the hint of a smile appearing on her lips. "Come sit down." She motioned to the bench next to her chair and he moved closer to her, but remained standing with one hand on the hilt of his handsome new sword.

"I came to offer you my condolences…about what happened, if I had only gotten there sooner – " He took long strides over to her, his armor glistening in the afternoon sun and the breeze gently lifting his golden locks away from his face.

She held up a hand to stop his explanation. "Jaime, please. I do not wish to dwell on the past. But I must thank you for what you did. Ser Arthur Dayne would be very proud of you for it." She had picked those words carefully over the last week. She knew that alluding to his hero would mean more to him than any other silly words she could come up with.

"Please, come sit." She insisted again, patting the bench next to her. Ser Jaime awkwardly obliged, sitting stiffly until she reached over and placed her small hand on top of his larger, combat-ridden hand. She could feel his tension melt away like wax from a candle.

Her breath quickened as, slowly, Ser Jaime turned over his palm to meet hers. His strong fingers wrapped around her hand, his thumb tenderly stroking the knuckle of her first finger. The skin on skin contact made her feel warm all over, like she'd had too much wine. She looked down and carefully lifted his hand to place a small kiss on his long fingers, keeping their entwined hands hovering dangerously close to her chest.

Her eyes searched his face for any indication of how he was feeling but she found a blank mask. His body was pointed toward her, but his face was turned toward the ground beneath them. His brow was smooth, his cheeks freshly shaven, and his mouth was a grim line. Saoirse suddenly felt as if she'd done something wrong and slowly returned his hand to his lap.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"Saoirse, I need to tell you something…rather important." He said, turning his face toward her but averting his emerald eyes to the ground.

"What is it?"

"The reason I was walking down that hallway that night…it wasn't because I was on patrol. I was…I was looking for you."

"You were looking for me? Why?" His confession was unnerving her in the worst way. Panic started creeping around the edges of her mind, as it periodically had over the last week. She started focusing on her breathing; in through the nose, out through the mouth, like Maester Coleman had told her.

He sighed, running a hand through his golden mane. "It's a bit complicated…but I had something to…to tell you."

"And what was it?" she implored, scooting a bit closer to him; his insecurity and nervousness making the Golden Lion of Lannister more approachable, calming her a bit. He opened his mouth, but he was interrupted and got to his feet at the approaching footsteps. Saoirse turned and saw her father approaching; a few pieces of parchment held in his hand and a stern look on his face.

"Ser Jaime, shouldn't you be patrolling the courtyards instead of bothering my daughter?" Jon Arryn asked, his voice as stern as his face.

"Father, I asked Ser Jaime to sit a moment so I could thank him. There's no need to be rude." Saoirse defended as Ser Jaime tried to come up with an answer.

"Could you give me and my daughter some privacy? I need to speak with her." Her father said directly to Jaime, who bowed a bit and took his leave.

"Goodbye, Ser Jaime." She called after him. He waved one hand over his shoulder but didn't turn around. It seemed to Saoirse that he was walking rather quickly, as if desperate to get away from her.

Her father waited until the Kingslayer was out of earshot and then handed her one of the scrolls of parchment, "News from Highgarden."

The first letter was what she expected, a formal cancellation of her engagement to Willas signed by Lord Tyrell. The next had its seal intact and was addressed directly to her. Her father had clearly respected her privacy enough to not read it. She broke the green rose seal and immediately recognized Willas' neat handwriting.

 _'My Dearest Saoirse,_

 _I start this letter with heavy heart, as I have heard about what happened to you and the effect it has had on my father. He has broken our marriage pact despite my best attempts to persuade him otherwise. I am truly, deeply sorry Saoirse. In truth, I had grown very fond of you during my visit to the capital and was eager to be your husband. I would hope to continue correspondence with you, but I realize that it may be inappropriate or awkward given the circumstances._

 _I wish you the best, and hope to see you again someday._

 _Favorably,_

 _Willas Tyrell'_

Saoirse felt her stomach drop as she read Willas' parting words. Part of her was incredibly relieved at his kindness; another part was disgusted with his condescension. How dare he pity her? Had he any idea what she had gone through he would have forced his father to agree to a postponement, knowing with full certainty that it was not her fault in the slightest. She shook her head and looked up at her father.

"Well, what did it say?" he asked gently.

"That he is sorry the marriage pact was broken. He hopes we can remain friends, et cetera."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not. It's about what I expected from him. Caring, with just a bit of condescension." She smiled a bit to reassure her father, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. He would know she was lying. She was disappointed her marriage pact had been tossed aside like rotted fruit. As a lord's daughter, her job was to marry another lord's son and bear his children, run his household. Barring that, what was she to do? Become an old maid and haunt the Eyrie for the rest of her days? And what of the Arryn bloodline? Lysa was proving to be less fertile than hoped, so it was possible that her father's lineage would stop with her.

Her father took a step closer and put a hand on her shoulder, "My dear, how would you like to travel?"

Saoirse furrowed her brow, "Travel? To where?"

"To Dorne. Prince Doran and I became good friends during my visit, and he assures me you'd be more than welcome at Sunspear."

"But…why? You've never wished for me to travel before."

Her father moved his hand from her shoulder and down to her hand, grasping it lightly. "I think you should leave the capital for a while. I've seen you in these last days; all you do is mope around. This is the first you've seen sunlight in a week. A change of scenery would do you immense good. Perhaps bring you back to yourself."

Saoirse was silent, considering her father's proposal as she remembered her last journey of note. Her travel to the capital from the Eyrie seven years prior had been long and arduous; mostly because it had been a stormy spring in the mountains, making their descent from the fortress rather dangerous. The roads were either too slippery or too muddy, and they'd nearly lost a wagon in a mudslide. Then there were the mountain clans to deal with; brutish, angry, and ugly tribes who raided the villages of the Vale and would attack anyone not protected by at least four swords. Instead of two weeks, the trip took nearly a month and at the end Saoirse was glad it was over.

But she was older now, with a longer attention span and a calmer nature. Everything she had heard about Dorne had appealed to her on some level; the exotic foods, intoxicating spices, the warm sun and sandy beaches, fierce population, and strong wine.

And she saw some merit in her father's justification. There were still hallways she avoided because he had followed her down them. She could barely look in the direction of the courtyard where it happened. Getting out of the Red Keep, away from the place where it happened, would be a relief. Perhaps put some of the rumors to rest.

"Dorne it is, then. When do I leave?" she queried.

Jon Arryn looked relieved, "The next ship leaves five days from now. It's a ten day trip by sea, and you'll be taking one of your handmaidens with you as well as two of our household guard."

"Which two?" she asked casually.

"Bronson and Hewl. I trust them the most."

"As do I." Saoirse agreed. The two Royce brothers were what some referred to as "wildling twins" being that they were born within a year of each other. They had both squired under her father and were knighted by him upon their arrival in King's Landing, having earned their Lord Protector's trust on the journey south by vigilantly guarding Saoirse and her new stepmother from the mountain clansmen and, on one occasion, a ravenous shadowcat. For his effort against the shadowcat, Hewl sported an ugly scar on his left cheek. If not for that, Saoirse would not have been able to tell them apart. Both had the grey eyes of House Royce, with sharp cheekbones that looked as if they could cut stone and made the long planes of their face much more apparent.

Saoirse rose to her feet, her father doing the same, "Well, if I am to set sail in such a short time, I'd best get packing." She smiled a genuine smile this time, making sure to crinkle her eyes happily. In truth, she was excited to go and get away from the pitying looks and worried glances and barely-muffled whispers she'd been subject to the last few days. She stood up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on her father's bearded cheek, "Thank you, father." She said quietly, hoping that he caught her meaning.

"You are most welcome, my girl." He said in return, placing a loving hand on her cheek. Apparently he understood that she was thanking him for not searching for a desperate lord to marry her off to in an attempt to hide her shame. She had never loved her father more.

Ser Hugh escorted her back to her room, where her handmaidens Della, Chassa, and Rosalie was already bustling about in preparation for their sea journey.

* * *

 _The Kingslayer_

What in the seven hells had he been thinking? He scolded himself as he stormed back toward the White Sword Tower, "Stupid…godsdamn…ignorant…fuck!"

He took the hard stone stairs two at a time until he reached his chamber door, slamming it roughly behind him. No matter how many calming breaths he took, his heart wouldn't stop pounding in his chest. From nerves or the exertion of sprinting up the stairs in armor he didn't know. Resting his head on the wooden door, he sighed loudly.

How could he have been so stupid? He'd almost told Saoirse the truth. If her father hadn't shown up, he would've told her…Told her what? That he was following her that night because he was concerned for her safety because he was in love with her? It certainly felt like it, but he couldn't be sure. The only other woman he'd loved was Cersei, and he had been born loving her. He loved Cersei to his very marrow, but he…admired Saoirse. While he knew what Cersei was, he simply accepted her and she accepted him. They loved each other for exactly the way they were. With Saoirse, he wanted to be better; he wanted to be the knight he had set out to be. One of the dragon slayers in her books of fairy tales, honorable and brave and worthy of the fair maiden's love. Merely being around her made him feel as though he could achieve that; as if he could achieve anything. Cersei was his roots binding him to the earth, while Saoirse was the sun in his branches making him want to reach for the sky.

He growled in frustration and pulled his forehead off the door, letting it _thunk_ back onto it a second later.

"Rough morning?" Cersei's voice sounded from over his shoulder.

He turned, looking at his twin's striking features. She'd clearly snuck over; her hair was pulled back and had been hidden under the hood of the cloak she was wearing. She was also wearing a simple roughspun outfit. He knew this meant she was expecting a late morning tussle in the sheets, which he was in no mood for.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed lowly, indicating that she shouldn't have come.

"What do you think? Robert's out hunting, Joff and Myrcella are with their septa, Tommen is napping…" she trailed off, her thin hand going to the string of her cloak and pulling it, letting it fall to the floor. Her eyes were hooded and he could tell she was set in her plan.

He sighed and strode over to her, throwing her cloak back over the shoulders, "Not today, Cersei."

She looked playfully offended, "Who are you to deny me? I am your queen!"

"It's been a long morning. I'm in no mood." He excused as he ushered her toward the door, "Take the back stairs."

She whirled around out of his grasp, "Is this about that pathetic little whore?" Her face was suddenly cut into jealous, vicious lines as she searched his face for confirmation. Apparently she found it and her lips curled into a cruel smirk, "You know what they're saying about her. That she had been flirting with that knight for over a week, leading him on, shaking her little falcon tail feathers at him. She got what she wanted, didn't she?"

Jaime's hands flew to her upper arms, squeezing them more tightly than necessary. He glared at her, making sure he showed her the danger of her accusations. He had been there, had witnessed Saoirse's fear and the tears that carved red tracks down her face. He had heard her whimpers of fear and pain and seen the knife stinging her throat. The way her eyes had landed on him with immense relief.

"She was raped, Cersei. I know what I saw."

"You sentimental idiot. Arryn's probably made her a marriage pact with one of his elderly lordlings already." She said as she wrenched her arms from his grasp. He let her go so as not to bruise her porcelain skin.

"He wouldn't do that. He loves her too much."

"Fathers never love their daughters that much. All daughters are good for is what's between their legs and which powerful men want it." She said bitterly before crossing her arms and continuing, "And besides, how is what happened to her any different than when Robert climbs into my bed and forces himself on me?"

"You are Robert's wife. It's your duty to – "

"To be touched by him when I don't want him? Against my will? Isn't that the definition of rape? Tell me, Jaime, why haven't you killed _him_? If you love me as much as you say you do, why have you never stopped him?!" She was getting agitated, her eyes boring into his dangerously.

He lowered his head, eyes finding the tiles on the floor, "He is my king, Cersei. And your husband."

"Since when has being king stopped you from murdering anyone?" she spat the words at him and he seized her by the throat, exerting just enough pressure to hold her there but not cut off her airway.

"Take that back, you slut."

She lurched forward, lips pursed as if to kiss him, but he held her in place, staring her down. He wouldn't let her get away with calling him a Kingslayer, however obliquely or however much the kingdom used his unwelcome moniker. He wouldn't take that abuse from her.

She tried to kiss him again, and again he held her in place. This time, she pulled backward out of his grasp.

"I hope you and your wretched little sparrow are very happy together." Her words were laced with venom, but she hadn't broken the skin so he would live despite her ire. He saw her face flash in anger when he didn't respond, but instead of yelling at him she turned and left his chambers, taking the back stairs as he suggested.

He knew that she wouldn't take the revelation that he cared for Saoirse well; they were supposed to only love each other. She was his first love, as he was hers; loving another woman was akin to betrayal in her eyes.

He watched her go and cursed himself further. Were the gods punishing him for his years of indecency by making him love Saoirse? Already he could feel the delicate balance of his life shifting under his feet and he didn't like it.

He didn't like it at all.

* * *

 **Hello! I'm back with Chapter Two and I really hoped you enjoyed it! I thought giving you a taste of Saoirse's past would help clear up some of the questions I got in the reviews. The feedback I got from Chapter One was encouraging, so THANK YOU for that!**

 **In future chapters this is going to be _very_ AU, which I'm really excited and kind of worried about. But I really hope you all will like the direction I take it. Reviews/Favorites/Follows are very much appreciated!**


	3. The Power of Spite

_Present Day_

 _The New Hand_

Saoirse Arryn sat on her window ledge looking out over the slumbering city below her. Her eyes were drawn toward the Sept of Baelor, a great looming structure that seemed hollow this late at night. She could just make out the outline of the dome against the navy blue night sky. There, underneath that dome that from this distance was no bigger than the width of her small, calloused hand, she would say goodbye to her father the next day. His body was being embalmed in the catacombs under the Sept probably as she was watching the stars move across the sky.

She wept at the thought. It was bad enough that her father had died, but the thought of his body being cut up, his innards in jars at his feet, then after the funeral his body would be turned to ash and the ashes sent to the Eyrie, where part of them were to be buried under the heart tree in the small Godswood, the rest thrown from the highest balcony. She remembered the tradition from when her cousin Elbert had died during the Rebellion.

"How undignified death is." Her father commented as they watched the gray ash drift towards the rocks below. Saoirse, being only six or seven at the time, didn't really understand death yet. "That is why I will never die!" He'd picked her up then and blown a raspberry on her cheek, which made her giggle.

She wept now at his words. Of course he would die, every one did in the end. She could feel his scratchy blonde beard on his cheek; smell the vetiver oil he wore as an understated scent. She could hear his voice, clear as day, but their conversations were now decidedly more one-sided.

Her door creaked open and she turned to see who had dared enter her chamber without knocking. She was surprised to see her little half-brother, Robert, half-hiding behind the wood of the door.

"Saoirse? Are you crying?" he asked in his weepy, weak voice.

"Yes, Robbie." She wiped away the tears on her cheeks, "I'm crying."

"Are you sad about Father?" he moved into the room, but remained against the wall by the door, nervous, as if she would snap at him like his mother often did. She wasn't surprised at his trepidation around her. They had never been the closest of siblings, being that they were eighteen years apart in age (indeed, Saoirse was closer in age to her stepmother than her half-brother) and Saoirse had been traveling for two-thirds of his life.

Upon her return from Dorne, she found Lysa to be more intolerable than ever, as the new mother gained a false sense of superiority after giving Jon his heir. She'd even gone so far as to commission a portrait of the family, but told Saoirse nothing about it. When Jon found out he demanded that Saoirse join them, which sent Lysa into a conniption.

The fight ended with Jon refusing to pay the artist for work he hadn't yet done, Lysa sobbing in a corner, and two year old Robert going into one of his fits, attended only by Maester Colemon. Saoirse had been none the wiser until Lysa cornered her in a courtyard and accused her of stealing all of her father's affection (a common indictment from her stepmother), and then blaming Robert's fits on lack of paternal love.

"Of course I am. Are you?" she asked, patting the ledge next to her. He took the hint and made short, halting steps toward her. Since he was a little short she hooked her hands under his armpits and helped him up.

"Yes. But I don't think Mother is sad." His skin was almost translucently pale; she wasn't sure he should be out of bed, especially at this late hour. He'd had three fits in as many days since their father died and she couldn't help but be moved by his large features. His eyes, like Saoirse's and their fathers, were blue and sizeable. Those eyes were perhaps the main reason he looked years younger than he actually he was, along with his small stature. Instinctively, the boy curled into Saoirse's side. Seeking comfort or warmth, she didn't know. She obliged him and wrapped an arm around his too-thin shoulders.

"Oh? Why do you say that?" she asked conversationally. She knew that Lysa wasn't torn up about her loss, but at least she was putting on a good show to the public. Anyone looking at her during their visits to the Sept to arrange the funeral with the High Septon would believe that she was a dutiful, grieving widow, but behind closed doors she was anything but.

"She says that Father loved you more than me. That he never even loved me at all." Robert tucked farther into her side and curled his legs up into his chest.

She squeezed his shoulder gently, "You know that's a lie. Father loved both of us, and your mother, very much."

"I know." He muttered, folding his tiny fingers into the folds of the sleeve of her dressing gown. "Mother would cry into his wine."

"What was that?" He'd said it so quietly she'd almost missed it.

The young boy lifted his head and looked her in the eye, "Mother put tears into Father's wine…so he would know her sorrow, she said. And then he got sick."

The boy's words made her blood run cold. Adding anything to wine sounded suspicious, but tears…she'd studied poisons with Prince Oberyn in Dorne and one of the worst ones was called Tears of Lys.

Could Lysa have poisoned her father? There was no love lost between them, surely, and Lysa was bitter enough to consider it. But no way was she smart enough or devious enough to concoct a plan like this. She was merely someone's catspaw, a pawn in whoever else's larger plan.

"Robbie, you should get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow." She said, moving her arm and taking her half-brother's hand, leading him to the door. The chilly night air made Saoirse pull her robe tighter around herself as she led the boy up the stairs back to the nursery, where she found Lysa sleeping on a chair, her dress gathered at her waist, exposing her breasts. Saoirse groaned, throwing a stray blanket over her stepmother while helping her brother into the small bed by the fireplace. His skin was always cold to the touch, poor circulation Maester Colemon insisted, so Lysa insisted on having a fire going in the nursery at all times.

The boy was obviously dead tired, as he was snoring softly before Saoirse could even pull the sheet up to his neck. If he was so tired why had he come to see her? Why wait until his mother had fallen asleep to sneak up to her chambers? He knew his mother had poisoned their father, even if he didn't have the vocabulary to express it. Overcome with affection for the small, sickly boy with whom she shared half her blood, she bent down and kissed his chilly forehead before quitting the room.

Closing the door softly, she knew this would be her only chance. If her stepmother had been feeding her father poison, she must've hidden the vessel somewhere. Probably in her chambers, which were empty at the moment. Since there was no Hand at the moment, there were only guards posted at the bottom of the stairs, not at the top, so she could slink in unseen.

And that's exactly what she did. Leaving the door open, she lit a torch in the empty room and looked around. The large feather bed was made up in the red and blue Tully colors that Lysa refused to leave behind. On the other end of the room were her wardrobe, dressing table, and the plush chairs that surrounded the fireplace. If it was in here, it would most likely be hidden in a drawer. She crossed the room and sat down in the chair of the dressing table while she rifled through the drawers. Nothing but bits and bobs, hair ribbons and jars of anti-aging potions that Lysa had gotten from mummer's caravans.

In the drawer closest to the floor she found a dark wooden box, about the size of her palm. She opened it and had to stifle her cry of excitement. In it was a vial, about half the length of her pinky finger. The glass was curved into a teardrop shape, with a cork stopper in one end. She immediately recognized it as a poison vial, having studied the vicious substances extensively during her time in Dorne. She held it up to the light. It was empty.

If this was the poison she expected, it would've only taken a few drops to topple a full-grown man. Lysa had used the whole thing on her father. How much did she have to hate her husband to do such a thing?

Saoirse felt the familiar prickle behind her nose and seconds later, her eyes filled with tears. She wondered how much longer until she ran out of grief; of pain; of tears. The wounds were still fresh, but surely they would have to start healing soon. Now was not that time though, and she let herself cry as she delicately held the vial.

Having found what she needed to indict her stepmother, she left the room and returned to her own. She hid the vial in the pocket of the gown she was to wear the next day for her father's funeral; black as night, with a split skirt and falcons embroidered on the shoulders. The high neck led down to a lace-up over her bust, with two holes at the top and bottom. The dress she would wear underneath was sky blue, which gave it some color and represented her house.

Sleep did not come easy as she planned her next moves, so she paced her chamber. She would have to tell Robert about her suspicions as soon as possible, as well as confirm that it was poison with the Grand Maester. Speaking to the king had to come first, she decided, and she planned to do so the next morning. Because of the late hour, she wondered if she should go to sleep at all, but decided that it wouldn't do to look too haggard and sleep-deprived for her father's funeral.

She returned to her window and once more looked at the Sept of Baelor, dreading the next day and wondering what in the seven hells was going to happen next.

She just hoped she would make her father proud.

 _High As Honor_ , she heard in her father's voice. A pang of grief hit her in the gut and she blew out her candle before finally crawling into her bed.

* * *

 _Jaime_

It was one of those nights where Cersei had claimed an illness to discourage Robert from visiting her bed so she could sneak off to Jaime's chambers under the cover of darkness. Although Robert's visits were a rare enough occurrence now that it hardly mattered, she still had to maintain the façade of caring enough to inform him.

They had finished in their usual fashion; quietly, but spectacularly satisfying for both of them. She rolled off of him and lay next to him, naked as their nameday, her porcelain skin damp with sweat.

"You should go," he said after a few minutes of listening to her breathe slowly. "Funeral tomorrow."

Cersei groaned, her eyes closed, "A tedious funeral for a tedious man. If Robert hadn't threatened to drag me there by the hair I wouldn't be going."

Jaime ignored her subtle attempt to make him angry with Robert, choosing instead to kiss her shoulder and move to the edge of the bed. He sat there and looked around the room for her shift. He found his pants first and pulled them on, casually glancing out his open window as he stood.

When he looked up he noticed that her window was alight; she was still awake at this late hour. Moving to the window as if drawn there by a gypsy's spell, he got a closer look. Saoirse stood at her window, silhouetted by the light behind her. He couldn't see her expressions from this far away, but he watched as her shoulders slumped and she dropped her head forward before blowing out the candle and disappearing from view.

She had been busy in the last few days, trying to plan her father's funeral with her insufferable stepmother and the High Septon. He had seen her the day previous, when King Robert had formally appointed her as Hand of the King in front of the Small Council. She'd barely had time to sign the proclamation and speak the oath before she had to scurry off to something else. Jaime remembered how red her eyes had been, brightly contrasting the icy blue of her irises. Whether it was from lack of sleep or excessive crying he hadn't known, but it pulled a string under his ribcage all the same.

How badly he wished he could've been more present in her life, especially now. He could've held her when she cried herself to sleep, could've wiped her tears away and spoken soothing words, could've helped her with some of the burden of planning a funeral as necessary and as large as the one taking place upon the morrow.

Cersei had moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her naked form against his bareback, her chin resting against his shoulder.

"What are you staring at?" she asked, looking over his shoulder and adopting his line of vision, "Oh…that."

The chill hit his back as she moved away from him, gathering her discarded clothes from the floor. She didn't say anything because she didn't need to. They'd had this particular fight so many times over the years that it had become redundant. Cersei had never accepted his feelings for Saoirse, but she was as sick of having that fight as he was. It was an uneasy stalemate that both were more than willing to set aside for their occasional trysts. However, like all stalemates, it was bound to end eventually. He knew it, she knew it, but both were too stubborn to broach the subject just yet.

"You should go," he repeated, turning away from the window and leaning back against the frame. He was careful not to meet her eyes but noticed that she was fully dressed as he said, "Funeral tomorrow."

"Yes. I should." Her words were cold as her long fingers clasped her cloak at the hollow of her narrow throat and drew up the hood.

She left without a word of farewell, but it didn't bother him. His thoughts were still muddling over the new Hand of the King and what in the seven hells was going to happen next.

* * *

 _The King_

A sharp knock and a shout at his door interrupted his sleep. He rolled over and groaned loudly, sure that the person behind the door didn't hear his protestations.

"Your Grace, Lady Saoirse is without." One of his Kingsguard explained, he was too tired to care which one, "She claims it is urgent."

Robert groaned loudly again, "Let me find some pants," as he sat up. He could feel his pulse in his brain, making it slap against the inside of his skull. It was a wonder he wasn't more accustomed to this; he'd woken up hung over for the last several years straight. Clearing his throat, he spat into his chamber pot and rose to his feet, scratching and stretching his joints, which popped loudly. He grabbed the nearest pair of pants he could find, not giving two shits that they'd gone three days without a wash and were wrinkled as the Crone. The robe he found slung over the back of the chair. His breakfast was already set out and he tucked in before calling for Saoirse.

The lovely girl entered the room, her hands clutched at her perky breasts, gently cradling something between them. She was already wearing her mourning dress, which hugged every curve of her body. He stabbed a steak with his knife and brought it to his plate, beckoning her to sit in the chair to his right.

"The King's Hand sits to the right of the King!" he shouted jovially, ignoring his headache as he poured the two of them some wine. "What can I do for you Saoirse?"

The poor girl looked downtrodden, her face drawn and pale. Well, paler than usual, he thought as he took a bite of the steak. "Robert, I think…no, I know that Lysa murdered my father."

He laughed, "Oh? And what makes you so sure?"

She dropped her hands and looked at what she held between them, "She poisoned him, Robert." Her voice was small and for a moment she resembled the little girl in the Eyrie, confessing that she had dented his favorite helm. He had forgiven her easily because she looked so damned pathetic. Regret was never a good look on Saoirse Arryn, so he knew now that she was serious.

He put down his knife and fork, resting them against the plate. "Saoirse, what are you holding in your hands?" He made sure that his tone held the authority that came with the title of King.

She placed a small glass object on the table between them before finally reaching for her wine, "Do you know what that is?"

He picked up the small, teardrop shaped vial and held it in his palm, shaking it slightly so it rolled a bit in his hand. "No, what the hell is it?"

"It's a vial that I found in Lysa's room last night."

"What were you doing in Lysa's room last night?"

"Little Robert came to me and told me that Lysa had cried into our father's wine. So he would know her sorrow, she told him." She relayed.

"It's an empty vial, Sair." Robert raised an eyebrow dubiously, not sure if he believed that Lysa would've killed Jon. Sure, they'd had a loveless marriage, but he was willing to bet that damn near every marriage in the kingdom was until a certain point. Except maybe Ned and Catelyn, but there was always an exception to every rule.

Saoirse sighed, "I know it's circumstantial and gods know Lysa isn't cunning enough to think of this herself but…well, it makes sense, doesn't it? My father was healthy as a horse and then suddenly he was dead. He was poisoned, Robert, I'd bet my life on it…You don't believe me." She stated. Her tone was stony as the mountains of her realm, her blue eyes cold as the winds that blew there.

"Of course I don't! Sair, anything could've been in this vial. Perfume or some such nonsense."

"Then why did she hide it? If it was indeed a perfume, why keep it in the bottom drawer in a hidden box?"

"Perhaps she didn't like it too well."

"Then why is it empty? Robert, if I can prove this vial contained poison will you believe me? Will you have her arrested and questioned? You must admit, even if it's not true it's more than a bit suspicious." She was bargaining now, she must've been getting desperate. He saw how the grief had affected her and figured this was just part of the sickening mania that followed the death of a loved one. Remembering how he'd reacted to his own parents' death, he couldn't fault her. He'd tried to blame the sea captain, then the ship builder, and eventually he and Stannis had come to blows over it.

He relented, "Yes. If you can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the vial contained poison, I will have Lysa taken in for questioning."

"Good. I've got Pycelle on his way in. Although it may take him a bit to get here." She chuckled halfheartedly at her attempt at humor. Robert let out a sharp, booming laugh before returning to his breakfast, urging her to eat something.

"You look as if you haven't eaten in days. Come on, Sair, men like women with a little meat on their bones!"

She flicked her eyes over to him, regarding him out of the corner of her eye before relenting and grabbing a plate. She put a small scoop of scrambled eggs and a sausage link on it before daintily taking a few small bites.

Once she'd finished eating the Grand Maester shuffled in, looking weary as ever. Saoirse immediately moved to greet him, thanking him for coming at such an early hour. Robert smiled a bit to himself, seeing how she was trying to get on the old man's good side.

"It was no worry, Lady Hand, I do not sleep much these days. A symptom of old age, I'm afraid." He wheezed as Saoirse helped him into his chair. "Now, what may I help you with?"

Saoirse reached across the table for the vial and handed it to the Maester gently, "Grand Maester, can you tell us what this is and what you believe was inside it?"

Robert watched as Pycelle's face lit up with recognition and his breathing quickened, obviously he knew something and he stated as much.

"I know exactly what was in this vial. It was stolen from my stores of poison a fortnight ago, where did you find it?"

"Poison? Which poison?" Saoirse's falcon eyes had locked onto their target and Robert knew she would soon dive in for the kill.

"Tears of Lys, my Lady," Saoirse sank back in her chair and Robert shifted in his seat, still not wanting to admit that the mighty Jon Arryn had been felled by a woman's weapon. It was preposterous to think that a man of his stature would fall to a few drops of liquid, but as the vial was empty and the Maester had confirmed its contents to be poison Robert had little choice but to concede.

"Did my father's body show any signs of poisoning after death?" she asked intently, her focus never shifting from Pycelle's face. It appeared to Robert that she was trying to wring every drop of truth out of the old man's face with nothing more than her gaze, trying to detect the lies before the words fell from the Maester's mouth.

The Maester shifted in his seat as he fingered his chain of many metals, "Come to think of it…his tongue seemed a bit discolored during my exam…and his belly was distended. Not direct signs of poisoning, but a bit peculiar to be sure."

Robert could see Saoirse circling the prey she saw below, "So you mean to tell us, Grand Maester, that a fortnight ago a vial of the deadliest poison known to man goes missing from your stores and you say _nothing_? And then once my father, Hand of the King, turns up dead under suspicious circumstances with indirect signs of death by poison you again say _nothing_?!"

"My lady, I had simply not connected those two events. I swear, had I any inclination – "

"Who was the last visitor you had before you noticed the poison was missing?"

"Well, I do not check my supply every day, especially not of poisons. I keep those under lock and key."

"That's not what I asked. Who was the last visitor you had before you noticed the poison was gone?" she repeated herself, which Robert knew she hated doing.

"Pycelle, if you expect to maintain your position in court you'd best start telling us what we want to know. Answer the damned question." Robert chimed in for the first time since the old man had sat down. He was growing tired of the questioning and wanted to get to the arrest, for now he was sure of Lysa's guilt.

Pycelle's mouth opened and closed as he sputtered for words, "I-I have been Grand Maester for…How dare...?! Your Grace, I have served you well!"

"Then continue to do so and answer the bloody question!" Robert roared, slamming his hand on the table.

"It was Lady Arryn! She came to me with young Robert and asked for some milk of the poppy for his fits. I opened the cabinet, but then the boy started crying and I got distracted, didn't close it right away. That afternoon I noticed the Tears of Lys was missing."

Robert felt as if a bolt had struck him in the gut and he pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. "Are you sure, Pycelle?" He flicked his eyes over to Saoirse, who had drained of what little color she had left and, if he wasn't mistaken, had started trembling a bit. Perhaps she hadn't really believed it herself until just then.

"I am, Your Grace. However, I must say now that I am not sure that she was the one who took it."

"But it's possible she did?" Saoirse's voice was small but strong.

The Maester sighed, "Yes. It is possible."

"Thank you, Pycelle. You may go." Robert dismissed him and as he shuffled from the room Robert let the weight of the words settle over the two of them.

"She did it, Robert. She killed my father."

He could feel the rage pulse through his veins, spreading through his body like alcohol. He had called Jon Arryn a second father, he had loved the man's daughter as his sister, but never had he thought of Lysa Arryn or her sickly son as family. Seven Hells, he loved Cat as a sister and she was a thousand leagues away in Winterfell. How dare Lysa kill her husband, his second father? The man who defended him from the Mad King and had called his banners to do so. The man whom he'd ridden into battle next to, the man who oftentimes acted as Robert's conscience, cooling his hot tempers before he could do something rash.

That man had ceased to exist. Because of his bitch of a wife.

Robert leapt to his feet and stomped over to the wall where his Warhammer slept, unused, above his fireplace. He ripped it off the wall and let out a yell, swinging it down against the hearth and cracking the stone tile.

"I want her here NOW! I will make her confess and I will exact the gods' justice and turn her bones to dust!" he screamed. Saoirse got to her feet and glided over to him, approaching cautiously. He remained rigidly poised over the shattered tile, Warhammer gripped parallel to the floor in his hands ready to swing if necessary. She placed a small hand on his large shoulder and he softened a bit, his grip relaxing and the head of the hammer falling to the floor once more.

"We have to be smart about this, Robert. Give her a chance to crack under the pressure."

"I'll crack her. I will break every bone in her body until she confesses."

"No, Robert. We have to keep calm. I will confine her to the tower until after the funeral. That will give her enough time to start panicking. We may have a confession by the end of the day."

Robert smiled and turned to look at her. "Do you know how much like your father you are?"

She blushed a bit and averted her gaze to the floor, "I've been told, Your Grace."

Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms and gave her a bear hug; just like the ones he gave her when she was a child. His arms were under hers, wrapped around her chest, her feet dangling in the air. "He was so fucking proud of you, Saoirse. He'd be proud of you now." He said into her blonde hair. She started crying and he could feel his shoulder getting damp but he didn't care.

While he was never one for comforting crying women, they were the two people in the capitol who had loved Jon Arryn the most. They were also supposedly the two most powerful people in the realm, and yet they could do nothing to keep the man they had loved the most safe from The Stranger.

What they could do, however, is make sure his horrid wife paid dearly for her crime.

* * *

 **The plot thickens! From here on out I'm going to dramatically diverge from GRRM's work and bend this universe to my will! (Insert Evil Laugh Here) There will be some elements of the current universe in future chapters, but I'm not going to stress over it.**

 **Reviews make me super super happy!**


	4. Condemnation

**Chapter 4! Whoo hoo!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Saoirse_

Saoirse didn't confine Lysa to the tower, instead opting to let her play out her dutiful widow scenario during the funeral. She was quite convincing, sobbing obnoxiously and clutching her son as if she would soon lose him too (which, Saoirse thought, was not far from the truth). While she knew she knew she should be mourning her father, Saoirse couldn't help but feel a little excited for his funeral to end so she could spring the trap she and King Robert had set for Lysa.

Immediately after the funeral, indeed, as soon as the body was taken away from the Sept to the crematorium, Saoirse led her stepmother out of the great domed building and into a waiting litter. The sky was dark grey and heavy with impending rain, a day most befitting a funeral such as this. Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard escorted them back to the Red Keep, and Saoirse took her chance to have last words with her stepmother.

"I know you killed him." She said, glaring daggers at Lysa. The widow looked up from where she'd been stroking Robbie's hair and feigned innocence.

"Killed who, my dear?"

"My father. _Our_ father." Saoirse nodded her head pointedly at her younger brother, who was falling asleep at his mother's side. She knew he was dead tired from the previous night and she couldn't help but feel a swell of familial love for the boy. _As high as Honor_ indeed.

Lysa scoffed, "And what proof do you have of that?"

"Plenty. I've already presented said evidence to the King and I have a warrant for your arrest. When we get back to the Red Keep, which will be any minute now, you will be taken to a black cell to await trial."

"What proof?" Lysa asked indignantly, her voice rising in pitch and her face draining of color. Saoirse knew she'd cornered the woman; it gave her a deep sense of satisfaction.

"The empty poison vial that was found in your chambers, and Grand Maester Pycelle's confirmation of its contents." Saoirse lazily picked at a stray thread on her sleeve and looked out the window, they were almost there, so she turned her head back and stared her stepmother in her piggy face, "So if you want to spare your life, I would confess. Now, and in full. Tell the court who gave you the idea and this will be over before it begins. You will be banished from the Capital and the Vale and sent to train with the Silent Sisters in Oldtown, then reassigned from there. Young Robert may even come visit you on occasion."

Lysa sat forward a bit, careful not to disturb Robert too much, "I will _never_ confess to something I didn't do. Especially when my son hangs in the balance."

"Then my offer is off the table. You will rot in a black cell. I will not have my father's killer running loose about the Seven Kingdoms, so if I were you I would look out the window. This may be the last time you see sunlight. Or, rather, any light at all." She sat back in her seat and resumed picking at the stray thread. Lysa seethed across from her, wanting to say something but not being able to find the words as they passed under the portcullis of the Keep.

Once the gates closed Saoirse could hear King Robert's booming voice and his thunderous footsteps clattering toward the carriage.

"Where is she? That devil woman! Saoirse, bring her out here!" He shouted as he pounded on the litter door. Lysa's face went pure white and she gripped her son's frail body so tightly Saoirse thought she might snap it in two, but she obliged the King and opened the door. Lysa grabbed her forearm, her eyes wild and pleading.

"You don't have to do this, Saoirse! What would your father say of you robbing his son of his mother?"

"What would he say of you robbing him of his father? Goodbye, Lysa. I'll see you at the trial." Saoirse snapped back, reaching over for little Robert, who climbed into her arms. Making her way out of the litter, she nodded to the Gold Cloaks that stood outside but suddenly felt her head snapped back as Lysa had grabbed a fistful of her hair.

She fell back, hitting her tailbone on one of the litter's steps, scraping the palm of her left hand on the coarse wood, and dropping little Robert as pain exploded in her back and hand. A septa snatched the boy up just before Lysa vaulted out of the litter, slamming Saoirse bodily to the stone ground and screaming obscenities at her.

Using her training and superior strength, Saoirse was able to push up from the ground and flip Lysa onto her back, throwing a fist in her face. Lysa retaliated by lashing out with her fingernails and Saoirse could feel them open the flesh of her neck before a strong pair of arms lifted her off her stepmother and a pair of Gold Cloaks seized Lysa by the arms.

"No! No! My son! He needs his mother's milk or he'll have a fit! He'll have more fits than ever, please Saoirse, please! Let me be near him! Please!"

Saoirse didn't respond as she shook out of Ser Jaime's grasp and touched the crook of her neck, drawing her hand back to discover she was bleeding. The pain was nothing compared to the gratification she felt as watched as her stepmother was dragged toward the black cells.

"Lady Saoirse, you're bleeding." Jaime said, putting a hand on her elbow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the septa who had grabbed young Robbie ushering him back in the general direction of the Tower of the Hand. Jaime took a step closer to her, calling for a maester. Pycelle stepped forward, and Saoirse had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

"Oh, dear. The scratches aren't very deep, but we should sanitize them straight away to prevent infection. Come with me, my dear, I'll see to it." He placed a hand on her lower back and Saoirse followed him back to his chambers with Ser Jaime in tow. Due to the chaos happening in the main courtyard, no one noticed his absence.

The Maester's chambers were littered with books and potions and poultices and elixirs, nearly every spot except his bed taken up by various objects. He sat her on an unoccupied stool as he went to fetch some wine. Ser Jaime stood guard at the door, but she could feel his eyes flicking back to her every few seconds. His concern for her was touching, and at that moment she let her shoulders sag under the weight of the last few days and let her mind wander to the man standing at the door.

She hadn't spoken to him since their kiss the night of the father's death. How badly she had wanted to ignore her stepmother's summons and finally have Jaime for herself. If she was honest with herself, it was what she had wanted the most these last five years, but had never had the opportunity to fully explore. They'd entertained a heated flirtation starting after her return from Dorne. However, due to his duties to the King, her frequent travels, and her father's position in court it was difficult for them to fully act on their passions.

She had returned to the Red Keep after two years in the southernmost realm a completely different person than when she had left. Prince Oberyn had taken her under his wing and trained her with his three oldest daughters. He had taught her so many things about life and poisons and combat, and she would forever be in his debt. The two of them kept up correspondence to the present day.

One night after she had returned to the capital she had snuck out of the Tower of the Hand and down to the yard. As the daughter of Hand of the King, she couldn't very well be seen practicing with her knives and during the day, but by the end of her third day back she was itching for some practice. So, in the dead of night, while her handmaidens slept, she dressed in a simply roughspun shirt and trousers and crept out of her room.

She practiced with her knives for a bit, careful not to make too much noise as to not attract attention to herself, throwing them at the practice dummies and expertly hitting the eyes, forehead, and chest. It was the Hour of the Wolf, so she wasn't afraid of being discovered, but wanted to remain invisible. She had already heard a few of the rumors circulating about her and didn't want to add more.

The torches she lit were burning low, the summer heat was almost unbearable, but she enjoyed the physical strain. Pushing herself to her physical limits was one of the things that had helped her reclaim her body.

"You've cut your hair." A voice sounded from over her shoulder and she froze, her newly honed fighting instincts kicking in. She whipped around and saw Ser Jaime standing at the edge of the yard, his armor gleaming in the moonlight.

She instantly relaxed and nodded her head, "The climate of Dorne is not very conducive to long locks. Do you like it?" she asked, a hint of flirtation in her voice (another thing learned from Oberyn; how to keep the opposite sex off-balance) as she ran a hand through her short blonde hair. Before she left it had hung nearly down to her waist, it was now cut to about halfway between her chin and her shoulder.

Ser Jaime stepped out from under the archway and crossed to her, "Prince Oberyn didn't like it long, eh?"

She balked at the suggestion, "How dare you insult my honor in such a way!" she said in mostly mock-offense as she swatted at his chest, her hand bouncing off his armor as he laughed.

"Perish the thought, My Lady! I was merely repeating some rumors I've heard."

She walked over to the practice dummy, "Oh I am aware." She muttered as she pulled a knife out of it sharply.

"It's impossible to escape them. Rumors, I mean. Especially here." He took a step toward her and she spun around on her heel, expertly twirling the knife through her right fingers.

"Well…there may be some truth to some of them." She hinted darkly. Indeed, she had fallen for the Viper's charms a number of times, but not in the way that made her feel ashamed. Perhaps it was the heat of Dorne or her newfound boldness, but she had enjoyed every minute of her time with Prince Oberyn.

It was Jaime's turn to balk, but he hid it underneath his signature teasing tone. "Oh really, My Lady, which ones?"

Suddenly she turned back toward the dummy, throwing the knife in her hand. Assessing its position in the dummy's jugular she smiled and turned back to him, knowing that he'd seen it too. She would not back down so easily to his teasing now. Now she was a falconess, she could soar high above the head of a lion, just out of reach, for as long as she wanted.

"All of them."

Without warning he grabbed her elbow, pulling her closer until his lips crashed against hers. kissed her. His movements indicated a deep hunger that she couldn't resist. Fisting her hand through his golden hair, she pulled his body closer as his tongue began to massage hers and she gave in willingly to this advance. She could feel the chill of his metal armor through her thin shirt and would've been willing to explore the body heat underneath, had it not been for the approaching clanking of armor.

Five years and numerous such encounters later, she sat wincing as the Grand Maester's cold fingers dabbed some sort of salve onto the scratches left by her stepmother. When he was finished he lingered a bit too long for Saoirse's comfort before applying a bandage. In order to fully clean the injury, he had her slip her shoulder out of her dress and apparently he was enjoying the view.

"Come see me tomorrow and I will apply a fresh bandage, along with more salve." He said in his creaky old voice, patting the bandage.

"Or how about you give me the salve and I can find my own bandages." She commanded. It was not a suggestion. His part in her father's death would not be forgotten soon, and while she didn't want to be completely rude to him to ensure his testimony against Lysa, she didn't want to be in his presence any longer than necessary. She had a Maester of her own who could apply a new bandage, and he wouldn't offer her such leering looks.

She told him this and he snorted, muttering something about Maester Colemon's chain not being as long as his own and his questionable treatment of young Robert's condition before Saoirse snapped.

"Nevermind, Grand Maester. I will have Colemon make up a salve of his own. Thank you for your help, I will see you at the small council meeting upon the morrow." She shrugged her shoulder back into the dress and gently touched Jaime's shoulder to let him know to follow her.

On their walk back toward the Tower of the Hand, _her_ tower she now realized, she knew she should start strategizing her next moves against Lysa and how to figure out who the mastermind behind her father's murder was. But instead she was focused on the knight walking by her side. Not in front of her as a protector, nor behind her as a subordinate, but by her side as an equal. Somehow, this didn't bother her as much as it should've.

For a moment she worried about what anyone seeing them walk side by side would think, but quickly decided that she didn't care. The rats and spiders of King's Landing could twitter and whisper about her all they wanted; she hadn't cared for years now.

"What are you thinking, Lady Hand?" Ser Jaime's voice broke the silence between them as they passed under an archway and into a courtyard.

She chuckled a bit, "That it is still strange to hear people call me that."

"Well, you've earned it." He smiled his charming smile at her, but instead of turning to jelly she merely furrowed her brow, thinking over his statement for a minute.

"Have I though? Most Hands are appointed, I was given this position by my father."

"It seems your father let you inherit something from him after all. I mean, besides his dashing good looks."

She swatted at him, trying to hide the smirk on her lips. "I suppose…Would you assist me with moving some things into my father's- my room?" She hadn't been able to even think of moving into her new chambers at the top of the Tower yet. She had simply been too busy in the last days, but if she was honest with herself it was because to her it would always be her father's room. However, now that her father had been properly laid to rest and she was officially the Hand of the King she figured that she should assume some more traditional parts of the role.

"Of course. Whatever my Lady Hand needs, my Lady Hand will get." Saoirse shot him a sideways glance, and he smirked at her annoyance. "Simply attempting to get you used to hearing the title, my Lady Hand."

"I thank you for your assistance, then." She teased as they started their ascent.

The Tower of the Hand had never been a cheerful place, and remained such today. Outside, she heard the sky opening up and a hard rain begin to fall. They finished the climb, pausing in front of her chambers. Suddenly, her thoughts became a blur. He was going to enter her chambers and they would be totally alone. Anything could happen.

She told herself to quit those thoughts. He was simply helping her move some things upstairs. She opened the door to her chambers and Jaime followed her in. Praying that he didn't notice the slight tremble in her hands, she directed him toward the trunk on the bed.

In the midst of the chaos of the last few days when she found she couldn't bring herself to sleep, she had packed instead. The trunk held some books, a few of her more precious gowns and jewelry, and her throwing knives. It was a bit too cumbersome for her small frame, and she had planned on having a few of her handmaids carry it upstairs but decided to save them the exertion.

"Do you think you can manage this, Ser Jaime?" she teased a bit, tapping the lid of the trunk with her fingers. He smirked at her.

"Of course, Lady Hand, it's no trouble at all." He moved toward her like a lion moves toward its prey; slowly, never taking his eyes off of her. His green eyes narrowed on her made her feel nervous in the best way. Chills ran down her spine as he lifted the trunk as if it weighed nothing at all and hoisted it to his shoulder. When he stood at his full height once more he looked at her, awaiting instruction.

"If you would proceed upstairs, Ser, I will be along. I have a few more things I wish to bring with me."

Jaime nodded, seemingly recognizing her need to be alone for a minute. The weight of the last few days refused to leave her shoulders as she looked around the room she'd occupied these last fourteen years in the capital. The stone walls blank except for a blue-and-white banner of her house. She moved toward it and took it down, draping it over her arm. The large feather mattress was bare; her maids had moved her bedding upstairs during the funeral. A few odds and ends still sat on the vanity, things with which her handmaids didn't know what to do. Some stray hair ribbons, a green-enameled rose brooch that had been a gift from Willas Tyrell many moons ago (that she had willfully broken in two after their betrothal fell through), some buttons and clasps.

Her wardrobe was still full of her colorful dresses from Dorne and Myr. Knowing that she would be wearing black for the next several weeks she had instructed her maids to leave them for now. Once her mourning was over she would once again don the delicate lace from Myr or the fine Dornish silks.

She inhaled deeply, trying to rid her gut of the poison cloud of grief that had settled there as she closed the wardrobe and moved out of the room. As she closed the door, the latch fell with a stark finality. No longer was she the girl who occupied that room; She was the woman who would soon occupy the Hand's Quarters. Powerful, confident, formidable.

Even though she felt anything but.

As she climbed the drab staircase she paused. The world was hers, if she wanted it. Hand of the King was, in King Robert's reality, more powerful than the King himself. Robert preferred whoring and drinking to governing, which left the governing to her father. Well, now…her. She was expected to rule in Robert's stead. She knew she wasn't meant for it; but she would have to be upon the morrow. It would be her first Small Council meeting as official Hand of the King.

Shrugging off the thought, she finished her ascent and entered her new chambers. The entrance was actually directly into the solar, the chambers through the door on the right and the private toilet just beyond that. The door to her left led a small library and a servant's quarters. The door to the right was open, and she assumed Ser Jaime had presumptuously entered her room.

Her suspicions were correct; he was standing over by the wardrobe, rifling through her various black gowns. The trunk he was charged with carrying sat on the small desk by the window, and her furs were on her bed. She lay her banner on the desk next to the trunk to hang on the wall later.

"You've got a lot of black. Might I suggest a less drab color?" he asked upon hearing her enter.

She scoffed, "What sort of color would you have me wear during my mourning?"

"Anything but black. It doesn't suit you."

"Black looks good on everyone."

"I didn't say it looked bad; it simply doesn't suit you," he gave her that predatory look again and stalked over to her. She was more than willing to be his prey, wanting nothing more than to throw him on her new bed and take her sweet time with him. "Don't the Myrish wear white while in mourning?

"And white would suit me?"

"Perhaps. Though I much prefer you in colors."

"What color would you have me wear?" she asked again, placing her hands on the chest of his armor when he got close enough.

"Dark blue. It brings out your eyes. Or…that forest green gown you've had forever. The silk one with that tantalizingly low neckline…" he traced her upper arm with his right hand while his left traced over the bandage on her neck. "I'm sorry I didn't prevent this."

"You don't have to save me, Jaime. I am more than – "

"I know you are capable of protecting yourself. That doesn't mean that you _have_ to. At least, not all the time."

She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knock at the door to the solar. She backed away from Ser Jaime and bid whoever it was enter. Ser Vardis entered and crossed the threshold into the solar.

"Damn that man. Always interrupting." Jaime said quietly and she chuckled, motioning for him to remain hidden in her chambers while she dealt with Ser Vardis.

"Ser Vardis, what troubles you this afternoon?" she asked as she shut the door to her chambers, moving to sit behind her father's desk.

"My Lady Hand, I wished to speak to you about your stepmother." He said tersely, bowing slightly when she entered the room. Another quirk of the job she would have to get used to.

She leaned back in the chair and regarded the Head of her Household Guard, "What about her, Ser?"

"My Lady, I was hoping you would reconsider your imprisonment of Lady Arryn."

Saoirse couldn't help how her eyebrows lifted in surprise, "There is substantial evidence against her. Why should I reconsider, Ser Vardis?"

"She is the mother of the Lord of the Vale, she does not deserve to be treated like a common criminal."

"So what do you propose?" She was intrigued. Ser Vardis had been in her father's service for longer than she'd been alive; she had an inkling that he wouldn't accept her authority right away and it appeared she was correct. However, she was prepared to do what was necessary to assert her authority.

"I was hoping you would consider keeping her under house arrest instead of in a black cell, Lady Hand. Lord Robert needs her in order to keep his fits under control."

"I have talked with Maester Colemon and Grand Maester Pycelle, they both agree that Robert will be well suited with milk of the poppy and some dreamwine until we can find a wetnurse for him."

"My Lady Hand, with all due respect, he is Lord Protector of the Vale. He deserves better than some tapped out wetnurse."

Saoirse tilted her head at him, "And the woman who killed his father is worthy?"

"Your evidence is circumstantial at best. Lady Hand, I do not know what sort of attack you plan on mounting against her good name."

Saoirse must've looked like she'd been slapped because that was exactly how she felt; Ser Vardis, her father's faithful servant and the man who had helped watch over her in her youth doubted her. She sighed.

"You know how she felt about my father. She was a nasty, vindictive woman who wanted to be rid of my father in the quickest way possible. Who is to say she didn't poison him?" She explained steadily, gripping the desk to keep from reaching for one of the knives hidden on her person.

"That doesn't mean she is guilty. I implore you to let her go and forget your foolishness, girl."

Saoirse considered for all of half a second, "I am the Hand of the King, and I will not tolerate being talked down to by my subordinates, which for the record Ser Vardis, you have always been. I will not reconsider my stepmother's incarceration because she is guilty of this heinous crime against your liege lord and is only a part of the house you serve by marriage. I was born an Arryn, yet you treat me with nothing but contempt. I think the thing I should reconsider is your position in my household guard. I mean, if you are willing to side with a murderess instead of the Hand of the King how am I to trust your loyalty at all?" she tented her fingers under her chin, and wanted to put her feet up but thought her skirt riding up her legs would undermine her authority a bit.

"My Lady Hand, I didn't mean – "

"Of course you did. I'm sorry, Ser Vardis. You served my father most loyally, but I am afraid the same courtesies do not extend to me." Ser Vardis remained silent, so she continued, "Perhaps because you knew me as a babe and still think of me that way, but I assure you I am not. I am a woman grown, a woman traveled, a woman most educated in the evils and sin of the world. I am sorry Ser Vardis, but you are released from your duty to House Arryn. Gather your things and be out of King's Landing by daybreak."

Ser Vardis sputtered a bit, but betrayed little emotion. She knew it was unfair of her, but she didn't know whom she could trust and something told her that ridding herself of the regime of old would help her separate the wheat from the chaff.

With a long sigh, he bowed and turned on his heel. Before he made it to the door she called after him, "Please send Ser Bronson up on your way out."

The old knight turned back and nodded, "Yes, my lady," before exiting her solar.

Jaime clapped from his position leaning against the doorframe of her chambers and she looked over at him.

"Excellent work, Lady Hand. Tough, but fair."

"I can't afford disloyalty. Especially when I am headed into a trial such as this." She explained simply, rising from her seat. Jaime simply chuckled as he pushed himself off of the doorjamb and moved toward her. "What are you laughing at?"

"Your self-doubt."

"What?"

"Earlier, when you questioned whether you've earned this role or not…the way you handled Ser Vardis, you've definitely got the spine for this job." He took off his gloves and tucked them in his belt.

"Oh come now…" she started, but he put a hand on either cheek and forced her to look into his emerald eyes.

"Saoirse, I have seen five men attempt the position of Hand of the King, one of whom was my own father. Your father was a bit more adequate than the others, but of all, I think you are the most suited for the position. Robert listens to you, he respects your opinion because he loves you as a sister. I think you'll be great." His smirk sent the all-too-familiar chills down her spine and she tried unsuccessfully to hide her smile at his compliment.

"Well…If the great Ser Jaime Lannister thinks I can do it…" her grin turned into a smirk as his face got closer to hers.

"He does."

"Well then…" she said, their lips a breath apart. Her heart was hammering in her chest like The Smith himself was in there, constructing something new. A bridge across the gaping hole in her heart where her grief resided, or a tower to rise above the pain of her loss.

Their lips met, his as soft as ever as they touched hers gently, as if he wasn't sure he should be kissing her at all. Which was an insane assumption on his part because over the last week or so she had wanted nothing else than to kiss him and enfold herself in his arms and make all of her problems disappear. She indulged that desire now, moving his hands from her face to her waist and wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer and deepening their kiss.

He took her by surprise when he pulled back. She tried to follow but he insisted on breaking the kiss.

"I should go. I'm working the night shift; The King will be expecting me soon." He explicated.

She longingly ran a hand through his thick blonde mane, "Alright. Will you be at the small council meeting tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh…I'm sure I'll see you eventually then." She tried to hide her disappointment but knew she'd done so poorly. He placed a hand under her chin and lifted her face to meet his once again.

"I'm sorry that our lives keep driving us apart. If I could change our circumstances I would in a heartbeat, tell me you believe me." The sadness in his eyes was clear, and she had known him long enough to tell when he was lying.

"I believe you." She said as a knock sounded at the door.

"Lady Saoirse, it's Ser Bronson. Ser Vardis told me you wished to see me." Ser Bronson's voice sounded without and she took a reluctant step away from Jaime.

"There's a back stairs through the door in the servant's quarters." She muttered to him and he nodded, ducking through the door. His cloaked swished behind him and his armor clanked and her heart lurched in her chest, remembering his words.

"Enter, Ser Bronson." She said loudly, resuming her place behind the large desk. The dark haired knight entered and strode into the room, bowing slightly as he approached the desk.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ser Bronson."

"Part of the job, My Lady." He dismissed, a slight smirk on his lips as he assumed a relaxed stance, one hand on the pommel of the handsome sword at his hip.

"I'll cut right to the point, then, it's been a long day and I am tired. I have released Ser Vardis from his duties to House Arryn, leaving the position of Head of my Household guard open. I can think of no better man for the job than you." She smiled up at him and watched as his grey eyes lit up. Bronson straightened his position again and struggled to keep the smile off of his face. Saoirse felt a swell of joy for her friend, for that is exactly what the two were. He and his brother had traveled with her to Dorne and Myr, kept her safe from many different dangers that the world offered, and shared many a flagon of ale with her.

"My Lady Hand, I gladly accept." He lowered himself to one knee in front of her desk, "I pledge to you my sword, my life, and my honor."

"Oh rise, Ser Bronson. It is just the two of us here. I will have the documents drawn up and we will sign them upon the morrow. For now, if you wouldn't mind stationing a few men outside my door and send for a taster."

"Your wish is my command, My Lady." He said, bowing a bit as he turned and took his leave.

As soon as he was gone, Saoirse crossed into her new bedroom and fell onto the bed, ignoring the trunk and banner that lay there, and falling into a deep, empty sleep.

* * *

 **So things are heating up, and let me tell you it's only going to get hotter! Also, this is one of the longer chapters that I've ever written (5300 words!), so I hope that you enjoyed it!**

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	5. Dealings with the Devil

**I'm back my lovelies! So sorry it took so long, but I've been co-writing a comedy webseries called The Lair! It's basically The Office but with Supervillains. It is set to premiere in May, so keep an eye out for it! As always, THANK YOU for your support while I was away. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 _The Widow_

She was still wearing her mourning dress five days later, the bruising on her jaw from Saoirse's punch had subsided a bit. If she could see it she knew the dress would be dirty and tattered and splashed with mud, but alas, the black cells indeed earned their name. It was black all around her, black for miles around as far as she knew.

As far as Lysa could tell she was the only one down this far, which she thought was fair. She had murdered her husband, The Hand of the King and Lord Protector of one of the most fertile lands in Westeros. However, she was also the mother of the current Lord Protector of the Vale, and the only parent he had left. She needed to get out of there, to avoid trial, to avoid execution, if for no reason other than her son needed her.

The sound of footsteps carried down the far staircase and Lysa shifted a bit, making her stomach groan angrily. She had scarce touched the scant few meals she'd been given since her imprisonment lest her stepdaughter try to exact her revenge via the same means that killed her father. Deep down she knew that Saoirse wouldn't stoop to such a level as poisoning her, but still she was wary. That was what Petyr had taught her; always be wary of others. King's Landing was a snake pit, and she could trust no one. That was partly why she agreed to his plan; to get her son out of danger and back to his father's ancestral home.

Her heart lurched at the thought of little Robert. She missed him more than she could bear and felt another wave of hunger crash through her as the footsteps got closer, along with the light of a candle she could see in the crack between the door and the floor. She had to shield her eyes a bit, for even a small amount of light made her wince after five days in pure darkness. Keys jingled on the other side of the door, which opened.

Lysa spared her eyes from the light by covering them with one hand, both protecting her eyesight and refusing to look at whomever it was who was paying her a visit. However desperately she wished to see Robert, she did not want him to see her like this.

Her worries allayed when she heard Petyr's voice through the darkness, "Lysa darling, uncover your eyes."

Lysa ripped her hands away from her face and blinked in the light. Petyr stood before her, looking regal in a green tunic and soft leather trousers. His tiny beard was neatly trimmed and his eyes shone in the dim light of the candle he held. She rose to her feet carefully, swaying a bit when her vision blurred. Purposefully, she played up her temporary head rush and swooned a bit. Petyr, being the gentleman that he was, put his arm around her to steady her. Lysa's heart fluttered.

"My apologies, Lord Baelish, I have not been eating much these last few days. My condition makes me weak."

"And what condition is that, my Lady?" Petyr asked in his silky voice.

"Having a mother's heart. If I do not see my son again soon I am afraid I shall waste away!" She made her eyes well up with tears, a handy trick she'd learned as a child.

"You will see your son again, Lysa, and soon." He gripped her upper arms and looked her in the eye, so she knew he was serious. She let herself fall into his chest and sob.

"Oh Petyr, how am I going to get out of here? That little bitch found the vial in my drawers! How could I have been so careless?" Petyr smelled as he always had; like the expensive Pentoshi cologne he wore to mask the smell of the harsh soaps he used to clean himself. Suddenly the warmth of his chest was gone and Lysa had to catch herself from falling forward as Petyr moved toward the door. She looked at him with wide eyes, confused at his sudden harshness.

"You should've destroyed it once the poison was gone, my dear. You also should've sent that letter to Cat the day your husband's body went cold. But you didn't, did you?" His voice became thin and tight as it did when he was angry. She didn't want him to be angry with her; that would completely ruin their plans.

Bringing her hands up to her breasts and clutching them together as if in prayer she hoped to look innocent for him, "I didn't ruin everything, did I?"

"Not entirely. But I will have to work on that stepdaughter of yours if my plan is to succeed."

"Are you asking my permission?"

"No, no, no. I know you care less about your stepdaughter than you care about a pile of horse shit in Flea Bottom," Lysa smiled at this, he'd always had such a way with words. "I am merely keeping you informed. I will have to figure out how to get her to drop the charges against you without implicating myself, which will be tricky. Then I have to convince her to let you and young Robert leave for the Eyrie, again, not such an easy task. Saoirse has a sharp mind, like her father. She is not so easily fooled."

"But look how we took care of that," Lysa suggested, tracing one of her fingers along his mockingbird pin. "Surely we could depose her in a similar manner?"

Petyr scowled, "That was the original plan, but I am afraid that the Lady Hand has taken to using a taster for all her meals. And besides, to poison her now would be akin to painting targets on our own backs."

"But if she is poisoned whilst I am imprisoned we could clear my name!" Lysa said brightly, feeling a moment of pride at her idea.

"You must think these things through, dear Lysa. No one on the small council thinks you did this on your own. If she is poisoned while you're in here that will only confirm their suspicions and set them to looking for your patron even more fanatically than they already are and it would only serve to implicate you more. I plan on meeting with Lady Saoirse after the Small Council meeting on the morrow, and she and I will discuss your predicament."

"What if she won't meet with you? What if she doesn't believe whatever lie you tell her? What if I never get out of this horrid prison or see my son again!" Lysa's tears were real now, her anxiety all at once flooding her brain, burning her thoughts within its grasp, and demolishing any and all hope she had.

Petyr shushed her, once again reaching for her upper arm. His touch remained respectfully distant when all she wanted was for him to enfold her in his arms. They didn't have to maintain the illusion of distance down here; there was no one around. They could be together like they had been so many years ago, before her horrible marriage and before her father made her drink the moon tea. How she longed to reach for his trouser strings and unleash the sheer rapture to be found there. The only thing stopping her was their environs. No matter how badly she wanted Petyr, she could not bring herself to fuck him in a dirty cell in the bowels of the Red Keep. She had been Lady of the Vale, after all.

"Lysa, you must trust me. My first plan may not have worked, but I always have something else up my sleeve. You trust me, don't you?" she nodded, brushing a tear away, "You love me, don't you?" Again she nodded, but more enthusiastically this time.

"Of course I do! All I want is for us to be together, Petyr, like we were always meant to be!"

"And I will make that happen. You just need to put your faith in me."

"Oh, Petyr, you have every ounce of faith in my body. Damn the Seven, you are my

god now!"

He chuckled, "Good, good. I must be getting back, Lysa. I do not know if I will be able to come see you again, but when I do everything will be sorted."

"Do you promise?" she asked, ducking her chin a bit and batting her eyelashes at him coyly.

"I promise." He said placing a quick, chaste kiss upon her lips before taking the candle and locking the door, leaving her in darkness once again.

Using the wall, she felt her way back to the corner she had settled in and eased herself down to the floor. The lack of food was starting to take its toll. She let her head drop into the seam where the stone walls met, and although this was the weakest she'd felt since giving birth, she felt fortified by her faith in Petyr. She knew without a doubt he would save her, and that thought accompanied her into the emotionless depth of slumber.

 _Saoirse_

She couldn't focus on anything during that day's Small Council meeting except for Lord Petyr Baelish. Now that she had free access to Lysa's room and belongings, she had started reading Lysa's diaries in order to ascertain who may have helped her concoct her heinous plan.

She didn't have to wait long to guess as to who it was. The diaries were full of declarations of love for the pointy-bearded lordling, as well as encounters and conversations between the two. In fact, it was a little frightening how obsessed Lysa was with him. If he hadn't orchestrated her father's death, Saoirse may have felt badly for the mockingbird.

Another interesting thing she found in her stepmother's diaries was the fact that she had once been carrying Baelish's bastard child. Her father made her get rid of it, and that is why he had consented to a match with Jon Arryn. Arryn was old, Lysa was ruined, it was an easy equation to solve. Saoirse had figured it out in not so much detail when she was a child, but she hadn't known the extent of it.

Yes, if anyone were able to worm his way into Lysa's paranoid mind, it would be Littlefinger. He was a master manipulator, even when his marks weren't half insane like Lysa. Be it money or knowledge, he was always one step ahead of everyone.

Not today, she thought as she sat slumped against the back of her chair in a most unladylike fashion. Robert hadn't bothered to show up, which wasn't unusual, but she felt as though his presence would make her feel more confident.

"The storm a few days ago knocked a substantial number of trees down in Flea Bottom, the citizens are requesting aid to help rebuild the buildings that were damaged." Renly explained, reading off of a list the length of his arm.

Saoirse sighed, "What do we have for reserve materials?"

"We have ample supplies, my Lady Hand, but we do not have the funds to pay the work force – "

"There's always the Lannisters. I'm sure Lord Tywin wouldn't mind – " Littlefinger started, but Saoirse interrupted him.

"No, Lord Baelish. I don't want this council running to Tywin Lannister for every last penny. Indeed, I am working on a way to possibly get rid of some of the crown's debt to the Lannisters. Take the funds from the tournament reserves, there should be plenty there. Make it appear as though the King is donating it out of the goodness of his heart."

Renly piped up, "My Lady, when Robert hears of this-"

"I will handle Robert," she snapped at Renly before turning her attention back to Baelish, "The tourney fund, Lord Baelish. See to it."

Littlefinger smiled congenially, "I will draw up the papers, my Lady Hand."

"Ser Barristan, Lord Stannis, will you aid Ser Janos in finding builders?" She asked. The two men nodded solemnly before she continued. "Then I believe that is enough for today. We will reconvene three days hence. Thank you My Lords."

She stood first, then the men in the room followed suit, slowly filing out of the door and into the throne room. She nodded to Ser Hewl, her new sworn sword, and started toward the door. A voice over her shoulder stopped her.

"My Lady Hand, I was hoping to speak with you a moment." Littlefinger's sickeningly silky voice resounded through the chamber and she turned to face him.

"Of course, Lord Baelish. Of what do you wish to speak?" she asked, pasting on a fake smile.

"A private manner, Lady Hand. If you wouldn't mind." He said, nodding his head to Ser Hewl. Quickly doing a mental check of the knives hidden on her person, she nodded to Ser Hewl, who stepped out the heavy wooden door and closed it behind him.

"Speak your mind, Lord Baelish." She said, clasping her hands in front of her.

"It concerns your stepmother and her fate."

"Ah, yes. I was hoping you would bring this up. Please sit." She motioned for him to sit in a chair across from her as she pulled out a chair for herself. He did as she bid and sat across from her. "Are you going to try to get me to release her? Because I have stumbled across further evidence against her."

He chuckled, "And what might that be?"

"The fact that she was once carrying your bastard. The fact that she has been obsessed with you for years. The fact that you are just power-hungry enough to influence her into killing my father."

His grey-green eyes narrowed and his head tilted to the left, "And that is the conclusion you drew? That I was the one who convinced Lysa to murder your father?"

"Of course it was. I am rather clever. However, I do not wish to drag this out. I want Lysa dead, Lord Baelish so I will not implicate you in any of this if you testify against her. Tell the court that she is obsessed with you, that she would've done anything to be with you. She was mad with obsession - "

"Mad enough to murder her own husband…I see…and what will I get in return?" He leaned back in his chair, looking at her amusedly.

"I will have the King name you Lord Protector of the Vale until such a time as my half-brother comes of age. If you do your duty and serve the realm well, I will see to it that when it is time for you to step down that King Robert will name you to whichever position on the Small Council you wish." She mirrored his movements and tented her fingers in front of her.

"Even if it is your position?" His question didn't surprise her in the slightest. Baelish craved power over anything else and she currently held one of the most powerful positions there was.

She shrugged, "I am not going to keep the title forever, and if young Robert doesn't make it to adulthood I will be Lady of the Vale. In that case, you and I can merely switch positions."

"And in the other?"

"I will take my place as Royal Advisor and remain in the capitol."

He had raised a hand to stroke his pointy beard, considering the deal in front of him. "You haven't told anyone else about this?"

"Your secret is safe with me, so long as Lysa's head dons a spike within one moon's turn." She was determined. Lord Baelish desired power, and had obviously used Lysa's fixation with him to his advantage. He was probably hoping to marry her and become Lord of the Vale, but Saoirse was offering the position for a much better price. He was an apt businessman with a keen sense of value, so she was hoping that he would take the bait.

"And with your past success in Gulltown, the Vale would be lucky to have you back." She offered, adding a bit of flattery to encourage him.

"Alright, Lady Hand. I will testify against Lysa. And once she is executed, young Robert and I will make the journey back to the Vale." Baelish said, accepting her offer and adding his own.

"Oh no, I am not about to send my sickly brother to the Vale with the likes of you. That would be signing his and, I suspect, my own death warrant. No, Robert will remain here with me until he is healthy enough for such a journey."

"You are wise not to trust me, Lady Hand. I daresay your father would be proud."

"Says the man who was all but responsible for his murder." She smirked over at him. He smirked back and she continued, "The trial is set for two weeks hence, it was announced to the realm today. It would be wise to start preparing your statements, Lord Baelish." She rose from her chair and he rose from his and they moved toward the exit. He paused, grasping one of her hands in both of his.

"I am glad we were able to work together on this, Lady Hand." He stroked her hand carefully, which unnerved her a bit. It was much too familiar and he was a relative stranger. She had known him since he'd arrived in the capital after his accomplishments in Gulltown had won him the title of Master of Coin, but he remained merely an acquaintance of hers.

"I am as well, Lord Baelish." She met his grayish eyes and found them searching her, roving over her body and face as if trying to read every single thing about her. Suddenly, she retracted her hand and nodded to the Master of Coin, exiting the Small Council chamber.

She had Lysa in a corner now, for surely having two members of the Small Council and three former handmaids paint her as a volatile, temperamental, slightly insane woman she would surely be found guilty.

Saoirse knew it was wrong to feel so good about her stepmother's imminent demise, but she couldn't help the smirk rising to her lips as she thought about avenging her father's untimely death.

"Family, duty, honor. Right now, Lysa has none of those." She thought to herself as Ser Hewl escorted her back to the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

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	6. North and South

**Chapter 6! I was not expecting to post this so soon, but I got strangely inspired over the last few days and, well, here we are. We get to see a bit of Winterfell in this chapter, and some of everyone's favorite imp, Tyrion!** **And, as always, THANK YOU for your support. All of the Favorites, Follows, and Reviews I've gotten in the last few days make me super happy and help keep me motivated!**

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* * *

 _Catelyn_

The chill in the air was becoming more and more prevalent as the days went on; the words of her husband's house were true. Winter was coming, and it would be here soon, she thought as she traversed the frosted ground on her way to the sept with her daughter Sansa and the direwolf pup Lady by her side. She felt a tug on the sleeve of her gown and turned her Tully blue eyes to the source of the tug.

"Yes, my dear?" she asked her eldest daughter, but knew at once what it was when she saw Sansa's delicate hand pointing to the roof of the smithy just as a flash of dark hair disappeared over the apex.

"Brandon Stark!" Catelyn yelled, diverting her path in the direction of her fourth child whilst trying to quell the rage she felt welling in her. If she'd told him once, she'd told him a thousand times to stop climbing. His unnamed direwolf pup sat obediently below the eaves of the roof, wagging his tail.

The boy's face appeared over the edge of the roof, sheepishly avoiding her angry gaze. "Yes, Mother?"

"Get down this instant!" she glared up at him, but upon seeing his face she softened. Gods help her, she couldn't stay angry with him. "Come join me and your sister in the sept. It's going to rain soon, you'll catch your death up there."

The boy nodded and slid down to the edge of the roof in a way that made Catelyn's heart stop. If his feet hadn't caught on the ledge…she shuddered to think of what could happen. But Bran was a sure-footed boy, she had to give him that, and her panic subsided once the boy's feet once again met the ground. He came bounding toward her, brown hair bouncing against his forehead and she wrapped him in a tight hug before ushering him and Sansa toward the sept once more.

The sept was small and a bit cramped when she insisted all of her children join her, but for now it was cozy enough for the three of them. Sansa immediately sat facing the altar of the Maiden, as Catelyn knew she would. How eager her daughter was to be married, and at such a young age. Bran faced the Warrior, again not surprising her in any way. Bran's ambition was to be as great a knight as his namesake, his uncle Brandon who had perished before Robert's Rebellion. The wolves sat outside, perhaps sensing they were not welcome in this sacred space. They were of the old gods, the old religion, and a sept was no place for them.

With both of the children engulfed in prayer, Catelyn turned to the Mother and began reciting a prayer that her own mother had taught her.

 _Mother give me strength, Mother give me patience, Mother give me hope. Mother bathe me in the light of your love and wash away the fear of the future._

Not halfway through her second recitation did she hear the door of the sept open and close, followed by a large hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She looked up at her husband, Ned, slightly surprised at his presence in the house of the new gods. Much like the direwolves, he was of the old gods. He had only built the sept for her, and avoided it unless necessary.

His presence now made her nervous, "Ned, what is it?"

With her words, Sansa and Bran looked up from their altars, suddenly alerted to their father's company. Bran rushed to Ned's side and hugged him about the waist. He'd been out on a hunt for the last two days, and had taken Robb with him.

"Father, you're back! Is Robb back too?" Bran asked eagerly, looking up at his father's face.

"He and Jory are putting away the horses, but I'm sure after that you can show him what you learned while he was away." Ned said, smiling at his son and preempting his question. Bran dashed out of the sept, while Sansa simply went back to her prayer after tersely greeting her father.

"News from King's Landing," his tone only made her nerves worse as she rose and followed Ned out into the cold once more. When they were out of earshot of the sept, he handed her two small scrolls bearing the seal of the Hand of the King.

They'd learned of Jon Arryn's passing only a week ago, and Ned had been despondent ever since. He'd loved the man as a second father, as had the King. Cat had half expected Robert to ride up the Kingsroad and ask Ned to be his new Hand, but apparently he already had one. The first scroll she unraveled was an announcement of Jon Arryn's daughter Saoirse taking the position her father once held. Cat looked at her husband for confirmation.

"A woman as hand of the King? Has there ever been?" she asked, agog at the announcement.

Ned shook his head, "No. There hasn't been so much as a woman on the small council since the first Targaryens. Read the next one." He shuffled his feet, which he only did when he was nervous about something.

With a slight tremble in her hand, Catelyn unrolled the second scroll.

'Let it be known across the realm that Robert Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm hereby accuses Lady Lysa Arryn of the assassination of her husband, Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Protector of the Vale. To all who wish to attend, the trial shall begin at midday, the fifth of the Seventh month.'

Catelyn had to read it a few more times before she could grasp the meaning. Lysa was being accused of murdering her husband? She wouldn't! At least, not on her own. Catelyn thought back to the last letter she'd received from her sister nearly half a year ago. She had lamented how miserable the capital was, how beautiful her son was, and how much she missed the Riverlands. But the bulk of the letter was spent detailing an encounter she'd had with Petyr, asking Catelyn's opinion on their brief exchange. It was not a short letter, either. Catelyn remembered pitying the poor raven that had carried it from the capital.

Cat's stomach lurched; if Lysa had done this, she hadn't acted alone. She must've had a little bird whispering in her ear, a bird that Lysa had been madly in love with from the minute he stepped into Riverrun all those years ago. A bird who had claimed that he had bedded both Tully sisters in a voice that was much too loud for Cat's liking. It wasn't true, but she was lucky the squires he'd said it to had kept it quiet (or, more like, they didn't believe him). Petyr was a master of manipulation, and Lysa was an easy mark.

"Cat? Are you alright?" Ned's voice broke through her muddled thoughts and she raised her eyes from the letter for the first time.

"I must go. She didn't do this on her own, Ned. I must go speak on her behalf." She said, trying to hide the frenetic energy that was bouncing around inside her skull. She needed to leave straight away; the trial was set for less than a fortnight. She was mentally packing everything she would need and trying to figure out which route would be faster.

Ned nodded, "Family, Duty, Honor." He recited her father's words to her. Her heart swelled with love for him in that moment; her hurried thoughts suddenly cooled. "I will send a raven back telling them of your arrival. Perhaps they will postpone until you get there. Go pack, I will arrange your travel."

It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms, but that wasn't proper behavior in the broad light of day. She simply reached for his hand and grasped it, placing a gentle kiss on his fingers.

"Thank you, Ned."

 _Saoirse_

Saoirse was in her solar, head bent over tables of figures. She was trying to figure a way out from under Tywin Lannister's thumb, hoping to rid the crown of some of its debts. The first, and most obvious answer, was to cut spending. She wasn't willing to take it from the money that went to feed the homeless and the orphans, so it had to come out of Robert's tourney fund. He was not going to like that. Perhaps if she could negotiate some sort of trade between the Vale, the Reach, and the Westerlands? The Reach was rich, fertile land, and had crops to spare. The Vale supplied the realms with metals and gems, along with a few spare crops and sheep. All the Westerlands had was gold.

Saoirse leaned back, rubbing her face tiredly as she looked out the window. The midday heat did nothing to help the stench of the city from wafting in through the large window. Her mind was tired and she began to consider a mid-afternoon nap when Ser Hewl opened the door.

"My Lady, news from the North and the Vale." He explained briefly, taking long strides over to her.

Saoirse sighed, "I was afraid of this."

The letter bore the grey wax seal of a direwolf. House Stark. Her mind flicked through some memories of Ned fondly as she opened the letter.

 _'Saoirse,_

 _I am writing to inform you that my wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, has left Winterfell and is traveling to attend the trial of her sister. She believes she has evidence that could exonerate Lady Lysa, and wishes to present this evidence in person at the trial._

 _I formally request that you postpone until my lady wife's arrival in King's Landing. She is coming down through White Harbor, it should delay the trial no more than five days._

 _Signed,_

 _Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

 _P.S. Your father's passing has not gone unnoticed by the North. Should you need it, our forces are at your disposal.'_

The smile at Ned's small attempt at comforting her quickly turned into a scowl. When she had said she was expecting a letter from the North she expected a harshly worded berating from Lady Stark herself, not a letter from one of her dearest friends from her youth requesting what was essentially a stay of execution for his good-sister. Of course, honor bound her to grant his request. Even though she planned on recusing herself from the trial, she was duty-bound to have all evidence, both for and against Lysa, heard.

She dropped her arm along the armrest of the chair, the letter hanging loosely from her fingertips as Ser Hewl awaited her command.

"Send word to Robert and Renly, the trial will be delayed another five days. It appears Lady Catelyn Stark is on her way to plead her sister's case." She sighed, unable to hide the annoyance in her voice as she ran a hand through her mid-length hair.

"Is that all, Lady Hand?" Hewl asked her. She nodded. He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Once he was gone she turned her attention to the large scroll from the Vale.

' _To the honorable Hand of the King, Lady Saoirse Arryn,_

 _We the undersigned Lords of the Vale do hereby implore you to renounce your title as Hand of the King and assume your family's ancestral seat in the Eyrie as Lady Paramount of the Vale._

 _We ask this in light of the accusations against your stepmother, and the fact that her son carries the same kinslaying blood in his veins. We have also heard reports of the boy's failing health, and do not think him worthy of sustaining our great province through the times to come._

 _As the only trueborn Arryn left, Lady Hand, you are duty-bound to your realm to assume your rightful seat in the Eyrie. The words of your house are High As Honor, and only an honorable person such as yourself should occupy such an important seat.'_

It was signed by Lords Yohn Royce, Gilwood Hunter, Horton Redfort, Benedar Belmore, and Symond Templeton, along with Lady Anya Waynwood. Basically everyone of consequence in the Vale had put their names on the declaration.

She took her time to think over her response. When she'd made the deal with Littlefinger, she'd drafted a declaration but in the days hence she'd neglected to refine it and send it on to the Eyrie. She'd told Robert of her plan, and he approved because he sought vengeance for her father's death as much as she did.

"And besides," he pointed out, "It would be good to keep someone like Littlefinger on our side."

As true as that statement was, Saoirse had her doubts. Littlefinger was surely too ambitious and self-serving to be able to be counted on unless the deal benefitted him in some way. What that little weasel craved was power, and Saoirse had just handed it to him in exchange for revenge.

Where was the honor in that? If these Lords Declarant had known of the deal she'd made with Littlefinger, would they still side with her? Would they accept Petyr Baelish as their interim Lord Paramount? She could frame the situation in such a way as to make it seem that she was giving these Lords Declarant what they wanted, but still keep her position as Hand of the King.

She pulled her draft out of the desk drawer and glanced it over. Adding a short paragraph, she decided she would have to run it past the Small Council first. With a long sigh, she pushed her chair back from the desk and made her way into her chambers.

She kept the windows open during the day, as there was an incredible cross breeze of sea air that kept the room at a cooler temperature than the rest of the tower. Crossing to the far side of the room she hung a cloth target on the wall, needing to flex her muscles. Practice had been hard to come by in the last few weeks. She hadn't been able to sneak down to the yard since before her father died.

The cloth target over the stone wall was less than ideal, but it would have to do for now. Quick as a flash, she pulled and threw the knives hidden up her sleeves and from the between her shoulder blades, each one hitting the center of the target before clattering to the floor. She crossed the room and gathered them up, returning to the spot across the room for another round.

 _Jaime_

The portcullis opened and Tyrion's small vanguard of red-clad knights entered. Jaime couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. Unlike how their sister felt about him, Jaime did in fact love his younger brother. He was witty and sarcastic and managed to make Jaime laugh.

The halfman had journeyed all the way from Casterly Rock in a litter, because riding for too long caused him pain. Once the litter came to a stop in front of Jaime the door slammed open, the stench of days-old wine flooding his nostrils and nearly knocking him back.

"Good morrow, dear brother! How do you fare this beautiful day?" Tyrion said a little too loudly. He was at least a little drunk, Jaime knew, as he almost always was.

"I am well, Tyrion. And you?"

"I find myself overcome with a general malaise. Luckily, I am able to self-medicate with this lovely concoction from Dorne." He descended the stairs and reached back into the litter for a bottle of Dornish red.

"Excellent. Shall I show you to your room?" Jaime said, bowing slightly and motioning toward the castle with his arm.

Tyrion nodded, "Of course! How different this place is since my last visit."

"What makes you say that?"

"One hand dead, a new one in place and a woman no less…an upcoming trial, how exciting that will be!" Tyrion ticked the occurrences off on his stubby fingers as they walked. He swayed dangerously, but Jaime caught hold of his velvet doublet and righted him before the younger Lannister could run headlong into the pedestal of a bust.

"Yes, well it's been an exciting couple of weeks, brother. You should've gotten here sooner," Jaime commented lightly, scanning the area out of habit.

"If only it had been possible! I was hung up outside Deep Den by a rather miraculous black-haired whore."

"Say no more, I can fill in the rest." The brothers passed under the shadow of the Tower of the Hand and Jaime unconsciously looked upward, hoping to see Saoirse but knowing it was unlikely. It had been days since the two had been alone, and things seemed to be escalating between them. Slowly, to be sure, but escalating nonetheless.

"I must say, she is an exceptional political mind. No doubt her father's doing." Tyrion nodded toward the tower, pulling Jaime out of his own mind before he could become too lost in thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Consider it; he knew she would never marry, she wasn't first in line for his title, so gave her the skills she would need to survive in this pit of snakes and rats and spiders, and then he gave her the power to use those skills."

Jaime had never considered, but he knew Tyrion was correct. He'd heard rumblings of a deal Saoirse had struck with Littlefinger for his damning testimony of her stepmother. Knowing about Cersei's dealings with the mockingbird and how the reedy man craved power, his yet-to-be-announced position as interim Lord of the Vale was the perfect way to ensure Lysa's neck met the business end of an axe.

"Fair point."

Tyrion stopped walking and yawned, stretching obnoxiously, "Well, I believe I am capable of finding my way from here. Same room as my last thousand visits, correct?" Jaime was confused, but nodded anyway. "And since my fair escort has no other plans for the day, it would seem that he now has an entirely free afternoon to do with what he pleases."

Jaime picked up on his brother's not-so-subtle hints, as they had stopped near the entrance to the Tower of the Hand.

"Really, Tyrion…"

"You have but one life, dear brother. Live it to the fullest."

And with that, his imp brother disappeared down the hall. Jaime smiled to himself at his brother's deviousness. But he wasn't about to miss the opportunity. He approached the guard at the entrance to the Tower.

"Ser, is Lady Saoirse in?" he asked in his best commanding tone.

The guard straightened, nervous to be addressing the Kingslayer, "Yes, Ser. Shall I announce you?"

"Seeing as how we are all the way at the bottom of the tower and she is at the top, I will have the guards further up announce me. Step aside," he waved his hand and the young man stepped to the side. Jaime momentarily thought about how easily it was to get past her guard and to what sort of risk that exposed the Hand of the King.

He climbed the stairs, not exactly knowing what would happen when he reached the top. With no expectations, he had found, he could never be disappointed, but that didn't mean he didn't hope for certain events to transpire. Now taking the stairs two at a time, he was eager to see her.

Reaching the top he paused for the guard to announce him, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was off-duty, but wore his sword nonetheless. It was better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, a lesson drilled into his head by the Morningstar himself many moons ago. The guard reappeared and Jaime nodded as he passed.

"Ser Jaime, what news?" she asked as he entered her solar. She glanced up at him, choosing to focus on the mounds of papers in front of her.

While Lord Jon Arryn had kept his desk neat and tidy, even in the most chaotic of times, his daughter was a different story. Sloppy stacks of papers littered nearly every horizontal surface of the solar, along with piles of books that hadn't gone back to their rightful spots on the numerous shelves, giving the room a gap-toothed feel. No, Saoirse Arryn was not known for her tidiness. It seemed to Jaime that her mind was too busy; she had better things to do than to worry about appearances for that is all they were. Appearances.

He agreed with her point, but in King's Landing appearances were everything.

Setting aside his misgivings, he strode into the room like he owned it. "No news. I just thought I would stop by."

A ruffle of papers and she looked at him fully, "Stop by for what? If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit preoccupied."

With three long strides, he reached her desk and rested on it, looking down at her with what he knew was a look that made women swoon. "You look tense, Lady Saoirse. If only there was something I could do to help."

Saoirse rolled her eyes at him, "If you just came here to flirt, Ser, you could not have picked a less opportune time."

She went back to her papers, but he pushed her wrists down. Where his fingers touched the exposed skin of her wrists he swore he felt fire. He knew what he wanted now.

"My Lady, have you ever heard of what happened to poor Jack of Oldtown?" he looked her straight in the eye and once again, she rolled her icy Arryn eyes. Of course she had, everyone had. It was an old mummer's tale.

"No, what about poor Jack of Oldtown?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Jaime circled the desk, resting against it and maintaining a dangerous closeness to her. "Jack was a cobbler on the outskirts of Oldtown, and he devoted his life to his work. He made the most beautiful shoes in all of Westeros, shoes that people would travel to buy all the way from Winterfell and Pentos and Braavos. However, upon arriving in his little shop, his customers would find that Jack was among the most horrendously boring people they'd ever met. All he talked of was shoes and shoemaking, and when he would go home at night he would dream of crafting shoes. Jack had no friends, no wife, and no children. He died alone in his cottage, and no one noticed until the king made the trip to Oldtown to collect a pair of shoes he'd ordered."

"Thank you for story time, Ser, but I've got a country to run."

"My point, Lady Saoirse, is that all work and no play made Jack an exceedingly dull man. I would hate to see that happen to you."

"Thank you for your concern, now what are you doing here?"

Jaime shrugged, "I ended up with a free afternoon. I was hoping to help you engage in a little…play."

She tried to stifle it, but Jaime caught the ghost of a smirk play about her lips. How beautiful she was, even with her braid falling out and a thin sheen of sweat around her forehead. The dark circles that lived under her eyes were more pronounced now, her new position no doubt causing her lack of sleep.

"Ser Jaime, I know you to play in only one of two ways. With a sword or with a woman's heart, and I'm not willing to engage you in either at the moment."

Jaime sank to his knees in front of her, taking one of her delicate hands in one of his rough, calloused ones, "I have no intentions of playing with your heart, Saoirse," he made his voice husky with want, "I simply want to ease your stresses."

Finally, she let the papers fall to the desk as she turned to face him, "And how do you suppose you'll do that?"

Still on his knees, he let his hands sink to the hem of her dress, lifting it slightly and letting his hands roam around her ankles, "I can think of a few ways."

He let his hands drift higher, and she didn't stop him even as his fingers danced up past her knees. The skirt of her dress lifted as well, exposing her creamy, slender legs. She still didn't protest, so he lifted her left calf, tracing its graceful curve as he rested it on his shoulder and turned his head to place a gentle kiss on it.

Saoirse sighed deep in her throat, almost a moan, but that was enough to encourage him. He flung her skirt up to her waist and kept kissing up her leg until he reached the sweet warmth that lay between her legs, pausing and looking up at her for permission to continue.

Their eyes met and she shook her head slighty, "Not here."

Jaime nodded, backing up and pulling her skirt back down as she stood. She grabbed a fistful of his doublet and practically dragged him to her chambers, which he took to be an encouraging sign.

Her chamber door closed and the cool, collected Saoirse Arryn ceased to exist. He had only caught mere glimpses of this Saoirse in their brief trysts, but now he saw her fully. Such a different face than she presented to the world. No longer was she the cold, rocky Lady of the Vale, nor was she the calculating, stony Hand of the King. Now, behind closed doors, she was passion and want and desire; a tempest; rain and lighting and wind.

She pushed him against her bed, forcing him to fall backward and land in a cloud that smelled like her. As she started kissing him he flipped her onto her back, kissing down her neck and over the tops of her breasts. Intent on succeeding in his earlier mission, he slid off of her and resumed his position on his knees.

He pushed her skirts up and she let him. He kissed the inside of her thigh and she let him.

He tasted her for the first time. And she let him.

* * *

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	7. Tully Trials

**Chapter 7! I'm hitting a hot streak, guys and gals, humor me while I try to get as much published as I can before I lose it!**

 **As always, an extra-large, extra hot, no foam, double espresso THANK YOU to all of you who have followed, favorited, and especially reviewed! I love hearing from my adoring public, so keep it coming!**

 **Saddle up for Chapter Seven!**

* * *

 _Catelyn_

Catelyn could smell the city before she could see it. Even a few miles out to sea, the stench of King's Landing cut through the otherwise pleasing salt air. Now, as she disembarked, she had to restrain herself from covering her face with a cloth lest she appear rude. She knew that, in time, she would get accustomed to the reek of the city.

Climbing into the wheelhouse, she prayed that time would come soon.

She sighed, letting her tired limbs relax as the wheelhouse jerked into motion. Ser Rodrik rode up top with the driver, as she had requested some privacy. Lady Catelyn had covered more miles than she'd thought possible in the last few days, and needed a break from the constant presence of her small vanguard.

Ned had sent her with three personal guards and Ser Rodrik, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms. [stuff]

The wheelhouse lurched to a stop much sooner than she expected; they couldn't possibly be at the Red Keep yet. She reached to pull back the curtain, only to have Ser Rodrik's bearded face poke into the window.

"Stay in the wheelhouse, My Lady. We have taken an...unexpected detour." His gruff voice said before disappearing just as abruptly as he appeared.

Shouts echoed in the small litter from just outside it, and Catelyn started to worry. Where were they? Had they been approached by ruffians?

The sounds of swords leaving their sheaths and Lady Catelyn could not sit idly by any longer. She opened the door and took a half-step out, the sun making her squint. Blocking the sun with her hand, she was better able to take in the scene in front of her.

They had stopped outside one of the city's cleaner-looking pleasure houses, the guards of which had advanced toward the wheelhouse. Ser Rodrik and her other guards had drawn on them.

"This is Lady Catelyn of Winterfell, you Flea Bottom swine! She is expected at the Red Keep!" Ser Rodrik insisted, his face getting redder with each breath. Apparently the heat of the lower city did not agree with him.

One of the guards of the pleasure house kept his hands at his belt and took a few relaxed steps forward, "I was told that my employer needed to speak to her, and to keep her here until he arrives."

"Lady Catelyn has no interest in speaking to anyone who does business in this part of town. She is a highborn lady of honor, not-!"

"I can speak for myself, Ser Rodrik, thank you," she commanded, drawing the attention of all the men present. She took a step further away from the wheelhouse. "Who is your employer and about what does he wish to speak with me?"

"That will do, Ellish." a familiar voice said from behind the man she had addressed. The guard stepped aside and revealed Petyr Baelish standing in the doorway of the whore house. She supposed she should've been more surprised to find out he was the one who waylaid her from the path to the Red Keep.

It had been years since she'd last seen him at Riverrun, and the years had taken their toll on him. He sported a salt and pepper goatee, and he had silver threads running through his dark hair. Her stomach tightened. The last time she'd seen him was just before he had besmirched her good name.

He opened his arms as he approached her, "Cat, it's been too long!"

As he got closer, Cat put a hand on his chest to prevent his embrace, "Petyr, what is this all about?"

"We should talk inside." He gracefully turned his would-be embrace into a leading gesture, ushering her toward the door of his establishment. Even though she didn't trust him as far as she could throw him, she knew he would never hurt her. She nodded at Ser Rodrik, putting him at a slight ease.

"Wait for me here, Ser Rodrik. I will be back shortly." she called back to him.

Petyr swept her up the stairs to what appeared to be his office, closing the door behind them. Cat looked around; Dornish silks draped over nearly every surface in almost every imaginable color, beautiful copper light fixtures dangled overhead, and overlarge pillows rested on the floor like slumbering bears.

"Can I offer you some wine?" Petyr asked, pouring himself a goblet of deep red liquid.

"No, thank you," Catelyn kept her stance as neutral as possible. It wasn't very ladylike, but to the seven hells with decorum. Her sister's life was at stake. "If you could hurry this along, Petyr, I need to get to the Red Keep and prepare my statements. Lysa's trial starts upon the morrow, you know."

"Oh, I am well aware. I was merely hoping to inquire about the content of your statements."

"Why?"

"I simply want to know Lysa's chances of acquittal. She is very dear to me, as you know. Both of the Tully sisters are, in fact." He approached her, but she took a step backwards. She remembered his words at Riverrun; his attempt to ruin her reputation.

"Don't, Petyr."

"Come now, Cat. It's me. You can tell me anything." He was uncomfortably close, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. Something flashed in his grey-green eyes and Cat took a further step back.

"I know you manipulated her into killing her husband," she turned away from him, thinking of the stash of obsession-laced letters tucked safely in her trunk outside. "I don't know the details, but she's been in love with you since you first stepped into our lives. She would do anything you asked of her, and that is what I intend to tell the small council."

The air between them crackled with her angry words, but Petyr remained calm. Eerily so.

Then, he chuckled. "Oh dearest, why do you wish to see my head on a spike so badly?" he joked. Cat was aghast; how dare he laugh at her assumption? It was perfectly valid. She took a deep breath and turned to face him again. The time to air her grievance had come at last.

"I heard you bragging to your cohorts in Riverrun about bedding both Lysa and me, that you took my maidenhood before my husband got the chance. You dishonored me, Petyr. You are a snake, and a liar and I am sorry that I ever called you friend." She had rehearsed these words over and over in the past years, should she ever meet Petyr Baelish again. As they left her lips she felt a sense of relief, as if a long-dormant weight had lifted from her shoulders.

"I am sorry you feel that way, Cat. But both you and I know that it was not a lie."

"It most certainly is! I have _never_ made love to anyone besides my husband."

Petyr's face did not falter, "The night after your betrothal was announced, after you had pushed me away, you came to me and apologized in a most satisfying way."

She slapped him, "How dare you! I pushed you away that night, then went to my room and went to sleep. That. Is. All."

"Then who was I with that night, Cat, hmm? Whose maiden's blood stained my sheets the next morning?"

"I know not, but it wasn't mine." her voice was firm as she set her jaw and glared at him, watching as the wheels spun in his mind. Suddenly, his eyes darkened and he looked away from her, turning his back on her and taking long strides back to his desk. His hands had curled into fists and he rested them upon the dark wood. The tension in his shoulders made him appear as if he would unravel at the slightest provocation. As quietly as she could, she took a step closer to him and reached out her hand.

That's when he turned his head sharply, "Leave. Now."

"Petyr, I'm-"

"Get out!" he roared, whirling around and lashing out with his closed fist. Luckily she was standing far enough away so his short arms couldn't reach her.

Lady Catelyn fled his office and her former friend, not releasing her breath until she was once again locked in the wheelhouse.

With one look out the window, she let out a long sigh. She knew her actions weren't exactly proper, but she hadn't felt as satisfied in weeks. Finally, after all these years, she had said to Petyr Baelish what she had meant to say. His enduring affection for made her uncomfortable, especially without the steadying presence of her husband.

As they crested the hill near the Sept of Baelor she looked out the window, admiring the immense architectural achievement. She made a mental note to take a tour before she left for Winterfell. Never in a million years would Catelyn Tully have ever thought she would miss her home in the north, but as time passed she had come to appreciate the stoic beauty of the castle and the grounds, even the tiny wooden sept Ned had built for her.

Her heart lurched as she thought of her husband, even more so when she thought of the five children she'd left behind. Not for the first time on her journey, she wished she had brought at least Sansa along. The mother in her knew that her first daughter would absolutely flourish in the capitol. Perhaps she could keep an eye out for a potential match for her here, but it would be years until Sansa was ready for marriage.

Utterly exhausted, Catelyn leaned back and tried to quiet her thoughts as the wheelhouse lurched through the streets, climbing ever closer to Red Keep and her sister's fate.

* * *

 _Saoirse_

The throne room was abuzz with chatter, it seemed to Saoirse that the entire Westerosi nobility was in attendance. Robert sat on the Iron Throne, glaring down upon his subjects and holding his warhammer upright in front of him. Saoirse had tried to talk him out of bringing the weapon, but he had insisted. Like a child insistent on holding a favorite toy, Robert would not let go of his warhammer.

Saoirse sat in a chair to his right, Renly on his left. The other members of the Small Council were assembled in chairs on the step below them. Petyr Baelish had already recused himself, as he was a key witness, but she suspected an ulterior motive.

The wooden doors at the opposite end of the hall groaned open, and Ser Barristan Selmy led in Lysa. The woman was surrounded by five Gold Cloaks and was pale and sickly looking as her son, but at least she looked clean. As a small kindness, Saoirse had had her brought to a higher cell on the second level of the dungeon, where there was light and a tub of warm water awaiting her. It did occur to Saoirse that the ever-melodramatic Lysa may have drowned herself, but she was okay with that. It would save her the time and trouble of a trial.

As Lysa was closed in the small pen meant for the accused, Saoirse rose to her feet and unrolled the scroll she'd been holding in her hands. The crowd fell silent as she started to speak.

"I, Lady Saoirse Arryn, Hand of the King, do hereby recuse myself from the trial of my stepmother, Lady Lysa Arryn. I now pass the Hand's duties of trial to Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws," she read from the paper that she, Robert, and Renly had all signed that morning before she ceremonially passed it to the King's younger brother. She rolled up the scroll and curtsied to Robert before moving toward the seating area meant for witnesses. Grand Maester Pycelle, Lady Catelyn Stark, Littlefinger, and a few of Lysa's maids were already sitting there. Saoirse took the empty chair next to Lady Catelyn as Renly addressed Lysa.

"Lady Lysa Arryn, you are to stand trial for the murder of your husband, Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" He stood proud as a peacock in his dark brown doublet, a handsome new belt of gold and citrine around his waist. Saoirse had always admired the king's younger brother, and reminded herself to ask him where he had gotten such a handsome belt.

Lysa remained silent, staring defiantly ahead of her.

"Lady Arryn? Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" Renly asked again, his voice unsure and his proud posture sinking a bit.

Lysa still said nothing.

"Robert slammed the handle of his warhammer against the ground, startling the crowd, "Damn it all, woman, answer the damned question!"

Lysa remained silent. Whispers and mutterings rippled through the crowd. One of Lysa's ex-maids said something to Saoirse, who waved her away and snapped her eyes to Littlefinger. He sat calmly, his thin hands folded on his lap and his posture impeccable. He was completely unfazed by the events unfolding in front of him. Lady Catelyn muttered to herself, "Come now, Lysa, be reasonable…"

"My Lady, if you do not answer you will be held in contempt of court and taken back to the black cells as your fate is decided for you. You will give up your right to speak in your own defense." Renly informed her, regaining a bit of composure.

"I will not need to speak in my own defense, My Lord," she finally spoke, "for I demand a trial by combat. I wish to let the gods decide my fate."

The silence in the crowd was deafening. Saoirse couldn't believe it; how had she overlooked this? Why would Lysa have requested it?

She turned her head, looking around at the other witness's reactions. The maids held their hands to their mouths, covering their shock, Pycelle looked as if he'd just been startled awake from one of his increasingly frequent cat naps, Lady Catelyn's eyes were glassy with tears.

Littlefinger remained in the exact position he'd been in the last time she'd set eyes on him. She had to furrow her brow in concentration to figure out if he was even breathing. He was behind this, somehow. Their deal was off, even if Lysa's champion won. Luckily, she hadn't sent the raven to the Vale just in case of this very situation.

"As is your right, My Lady," Renly said, "Who would you name as your champion?"

"Ser Vardis Egen of the Vale." Lysa said without hesitation. Saoirse rose to her feet to address the crowd once more.

"My Lady, since your imprisonment Ser Vardis has been dismissed from the service of House Arryn and has left the city. It may take us a while to track him down." she explained and Lysa's eyes landed on her own, narrowing in anger.

"Then I suggest you find him. It is my right to have whatever champion I desire."

Out of the corner of her eye, Saoirse saw Renly and Robert conferring. Robert's face was red as a beet, the veins in his neck threatening to burst while Renly tried to remain calm in the face of his brother's wrath.

"My Lady, we will grant your request. Until such time as Ser Vardis Egen is found, you will return to the black cells. If we are unable to locate him, however, you will need to supply us with another name. Ser Barristan, take the prisoner back to the dungeons." Renly commanded and Ser Barristan moved to follow his order. As Lysa left the room, the crowd dispersed.

Robert's knuckles were white around the handle of his warhammer. Saoirse could tell he was barely able to contain his anger, and feared what would happen if he boiled over. Leaving her suspicions about Littlefinger behind, she moved back up to the dais, moving in the opposite direction of the crowd.

"We must confer about this. My solar. Now." she demanded and Robert nodded, rising from the Iron Throne. Something in the vicinity of his knees popped loudly enough for Saoirse to hear.

She smiled at him, "Getting old, eh your grace?"

"I'm not as young as I was, I'll grant you that." Robert admitted with no mirth. He was entering one of his foul moods, and Saoirse knew she had a limited amount of time to joke him back to levity or he would be angry for days. "Lannister, with me."

Ser Jaime, who had been standing guard on the lower dais, followed the threesome with Sers Bronson and Hewl falling in behind him. Their walk to the Tower of the Hand was silent, their footsteps heavy as they ascended the stairs in the midday heat.

Once at the top they entered her solar, where they found some wine and a small luncheon had been set out.

"So. That did not go well." she stated plainly, leaning back in her high backed chair and reaching for a roll and some ham.

Renly asked, "How did we miss this?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is we now have to find Ser whatshisface as quickly as we possibly can! I want every gold cloak scouring the country for him!" Robert demanded as he slammed his hand on the mahogany table. Luckily, he had passed his warhammer off to Ser Arys Oakheart to bring back to his chambers before they left the throne room.

Saoirse remained calm, "I agree, we need to find Ser Vardis as quickly as possible, but to do that we may need to offer bonuses for the gold cloaks if you want them scouring the countryside."

"Where might he be?" Renly asked her.

"I released him just over a fortnight ago, after my father's funeral. He could've stayed in the city, but it's more likely he has made his way back to the Vale. Most likely he hopped a ship to Gulltown." she explained.

"Then we shall start there. We need funding, but I'm sure Littlefinger can find the money somewhere." Robert dismissed. Saoirse shifted in her seat, knowing that it meant he would borrow even more money from the Lannisters without hesitation. "What about terms?"

"We'll have to wait for Lysa to confirm, but knowing her it will probably be to the death. We also need to name a champion," Saoirse sat up in her chair and drew a knife out of her sleeve, twirling it between her fingers out of habit. "Any ideas?" Robert opened his mouth to volunteer, but she interrupted him before he could speak, "Anyone other than yourself, Robert. You're the king now, a warrior no longer."

"What good is being king if I can't even fight on behalf of the very crown I wear?" Robert blustered, standing from his chair and leaning across the table toward her. "If I wish to fight, I'll fight, damn it! And you can't do a fucking thing to stop me!"

Saoirse had heard enough from him. Quick as a flash, she slammed the knife she'd been twirling into the wood between his outstretched fingers and rising to her feet, challenging Robert's posturing.

"You think you would last a second in battle anymore, you drunken sot? We need a man who still has his wits about him, who doesn't spend his days drinking and whoring and hunting." her voice was low and dangerous. Opposing the King was not a typical duty of the Hand, but she was no typical Hand. She half expected him to order Ser Jaime to take her to the black cells, but the other half of her knew he wouldn't dare.

In his duties as Hand of the King, her father had obeyed Robert's every childish demand which had led them to the realm's current situation. A crown drowning in debt and an apathetic spendthrift king with no real direction or legacy. Upon assuming her duties, she had made sure that Robert understood she would not coddle him like her father had. She would force him to change his ways if it meant hauling him from his bed every morning or rationing his wine herself. To her surprise, Robert had understood her concern and agreed that he needed more purpose. Saoirse thought he hadn't had her dragged to the dungeons because he had seen the legitimacy of her concerns about Lysa and now trusted her keen eye, but that was pure conjecture.

In the present, Robert chuckled and withdrew his hand, once again resting in his chair. "I suppose you're right, Sair." The chair creaked under his weight, "What about that squire of yours, Ren? That one with curls like a maiden? Tyrell?"

Renly sputtered, caught off guard by his brother's assumption, "I-I'm sure Loras would be honored to serve the crown, but surely there are more qualified men? What about a man of House Arryn?" His face had paled and Saoirse glanced over at Ser Jaime as she lowered herself and wrenched her knife out of the table. They shared a small smirk, knowing that Robert was completely unaware of his brother's relationship with his squire.

"Bronson or Hewl would be best. They are the men I trust most." Saoirse nodded.

Ser Jaime, who had been standing guard silently next to the door, chimed in, "I'll do it."

She let herself really look at him for the first time that day, her heart suddenly racing in her chest. The cool steel of the blade between her fingers kept her thoughts steady. He hadn't worn his helm that day, and the slight breeze through the solar lifted his golden hair off of his cheeks. Heat crept up her neck as she remembered pushing her fingers through his mane, his mouth on her most sensitive parts...

"What was that, Lannister?" Robert shouted across the table at his Kingsguard, snapping Saoirse out of her reminiscence.

Ser Jaime took a step forward, his golden armor glinting in the sunlight that streamed from the window, "I would like to volunteer as champion for the crown. It would be my honor."

If ever there had been a more literal knight-in-shining-armor moment, Saoirse didn't know. She kept her demeanor calm, but replaced the knife in her sleeve and rose to her feet. Pacing was another nervous habit of hers, and she migrated toward her desk as inconspicuously as possible. At the same time she tried to ignore how her heart was now in her throat.

"If I cannot fight for the crown, why should one of my own Kingsguard be able to? I say no."

"Robert, Ser Vardis is old. Yes, he was once a great knight but age has left him slow and creaky and, if I'm honest, more than a little out of practice," Saoirse defended, "Ser Jaime on the other hand is still strong and the best swordsman in Westeros. He will make easy work of Ser Vardis Egen." It wasn't quite a lie.

"I agree, Robert," Renly started as Saoirse turned to her desk, scribbling a note for Ser Jaime onto a slip of paper. Slipping it into the palm of her hand, she resumed her pacing around the table as Renly tried to convince him that Ser Jaime was the best choice. Logically, she agreed. He'd reached the finals or semi-finals in many tourneys over the years, and was able to best any challenger in the training yard. That didn't steady her hand well enough.

"Fine, fine fine! Bloody Kingslayer can fight for his king."

"Technically, Your Grace, I'll be fighting for the gods." Jaime snarked, bristling a bit at his nickname.

Robert stood once more; Saoirse and Renly stood as well.

"Anything else, Lady Hand?" Robert mocked, his feet pointing toward the door.

Without a word, Saoirse crossed to Ser Jaime and held out her hand, the note hidden against her fingers in a way that Oberyn had taught her, "Thank you, Ser Jaime. I know my stepmother's fate is nearly sealed with you on our side."

He took her hand gently, playing the courtly knight as he raised it and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. She could feel the warmth of his hand through his glove, and his cat-green eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint that made the corner of her mouth twitch upward. As she pulled her hand away, she left the small bit of paper in his hand.

It was a trick that Oberyn had taught her in her time in Dorne. A few months after her arrival, after she'd started training with him and his eldest three daughters, he had slipped her a note that asked her to meet him by the stables at midnight in much the same way she'd just slipped a note to Jaime. Funnily enough, her note to the golden knight said nearly the exact same thing. That night she had demanded he teach her the trick. Prince Oberyn would go on to teach her many, many more tricks in the two years she lived in Sunspear.

Robert groaned as he passed Saoirse and Jaime, who had yet to look away from each other. "Lannister, get your gilded ass down to the yard and practice. Two hours a day until we find that blasted Ser Vardis, you hear me?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Jaime tore his eyes away from Saoirse's and dutifully followed his King out the door. Robert continued ranting, his booming voice echoing off the walls but his individual words getting lost.

Renly hung back, "Did you wish for me to put out the word to get the gold cloaks to search for Ser Vardis? Or would you like to do that yourself?"

"You can do it. Janos Slynt has shown me nothing but disdain since I took over." Saoirse waved her hand at him, moving back toward her desk, "Anything else, Lord Renly?"

"No, Lady Hand." And with that, he left.

No sooner had the door closed, however, than Ser Hewl was pushing through it. "Lady Saoirse, Lord Varys is without."

She let out a heavy sigh that could've been a groan; what she wanted now was nothing more than a nap or a long bath or both. "Send him in."

The enigmatic Lord Varys entered the room soundlessly, his silk slippers making no sound against the floor. She motioned to a seat at the table and joined him there.

"My Lady Hand, I am afraid I have some news that may be upsetting to you." he started, his quiet voice as smooth as the marble of the tower in which she resided.

The Master of Whispers had always puzzled Saoirse, as she had never been able to place his loyalties. They were cordial, and she hadn't called upon his services since she'd assumed her position as Hand. It occured to her now that she was sitting in his presence that she'd made a mistake. For who better to suss out who had been responsible for a murder than a man with a vast network of spies? She supposed it was too late for that now.

"And what might that be, Lord Varys?" she asked, popping a grape into her mouth.

He shifted forward in his seat and leaned toward her slightly, "Lady Hand, according to my little birds Lord Petyr Baelish has been to see your stepmother in her black cell no fewer than thrice. The last meeting was in the wee hours of this morning."

This peaked her interest. Saoirse was no fool, she knew that Baelish would most likely visit Lysa to maintain the facade of caring about her for his own benefit, but the timing of the last visit was strange. "And, pray tell, of what did they speak in this last meeting?"

"Lord Baelish suggested to Lysa that she demand a trial by combat. He claimed he had spoken to her sister upon her arrival in the city and that the crown's case against her was too strong. The only way for her to live was to let the gods decide her fate."

"Strange. I was under the impression that Lady Catelyn was in the city to speak in her sister's defense." Saoirse leaned back in her chair, unsure of Littlefinger's motives. Surely he knew that the crown had more skilled fighters willing to fight a trial by combat than Lysa did. Unless he was purposefully trying to depose Lysa as quickly as possible. She had served his purposes, now she was useless to him.

"That is what we had heard as well, Lady Hand. However, Lady Catelyn was seen going into one of Lord Baelish's pleasure houses on the day she arrived. I know not of what was said between them, unfortunately, but she left in quite a hurry." Varys's round face was expressionless, only delivering the facts and not embellishing with his own conjectures. Saoirse appreciated that. She could conjecture enough for the both of them.

"Interesting, Lord Varys, very interesting."

"There is one more thing I feel I must tell you, Lady Hand." he said without hesitation. Perhaps this was the real reason behind his visit. With a beckoning motion, she encouraged him to continue. "I believe the queen is plotting to kill the king."

Saoirse sat bolt upright, this was news to her, "Do you know specifics?"

"Unfortunately, no, but my little birds are on it."

"Alert me to anything you hear, then. I'll put the Kingsguard on high alert and hire a taster for now. I suppose that's all I can do," her voice sounded more exhausted than she wanted it to. Especially in the presence of the Master of Whispers. It could leak to the wrong person and compromise her position, as if it wasn't already precarious enough.

He rose to his feet and bowed slightly at the waist, his soft hands clasped in front of him. "Very well, Lady Hand. I will take my leave."

When he was halfway to the door, she called out his name. He turned back to her expectantly, "Yes, Lady Hand?"

"This is the first time you've ever visited me. How do I know I can trust you?" she asked, remaining seated.

Varys shrugged, "You don't."

"Who do you serve, then, if not the Hand of the King?"

A wide, toothy smile spread across the spider's face, "I serve the realm. Those who wish to do it harm will find themselves on my bad side. However, I can tell that you mean to do your best to make the realm better. For now, I would consider you an ally. Especially with your efforts to rid the crown of its debts to Tywin Lannister."

That comment caught her off-guard, like a well-timed parry to her left side, "H-how did you know about that?" She hadn't told anyone, on the small council or otherwise, of her plans.

His smile grew until it reached his ears, "Good day, Lady Hand."

And with that, Saoirse was left alone. She wished she could take solace in the quiet that now surrounded her, but her mind was now abuzz with the news Lord Varys had left her with.

* * *

 **The plot thickens! Let me know what you think in a review!  
**


	8. New Alliances

**Chapter 8 lookin' great! Honestly, this chapter read a little filler-y to me but what the heck? There's some good stuff here!**

 **THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited so far! Although I do think people didn't get the email for Chapter 7...oh well, here's Chapter Eight!**

* * *

 _Jaime_

 _Your chambers. Midnight. We need to talk._

That was what the note Saoirse had slipped him read once he got a chance to open it, which wasn't until after sundown and Ser Mandon Moore came to relieve him. He'd kept it tucked under his thick gambeson despite his desire to read it immediately. While letting his mind wander, as he was wont to do while standing outside the king's chambers, he had tried to parcel out what she could've written. She'd seemed perfectly calm during the meeting, save for her angry outburst at the King that, if Jaime was honest with himself, he greatly admired. It was about damned time someone told Robert the truth.

Now he sank into his bath, washing away the sweat of the day. It had been scorching hot that day, and he had worn no fewer than three layers including his armor, which wasn't exactly breathable. He didn't mind, though, after all these years he was used to it.

The moon was gaining altitude in the sky, and he knew he should dry off and redress before Saoirse arrived, but he luxuriated in the lukewarm water a while longer. The thought of her finding him in such a state brought a smile to his lips as he tried to imagine her reaction. Would she be scandalized and shield her eyes like a shy maiden? No. She'd seen (and, if rumors of her travels were true, had) many cocks before. More likely she would take in the sight, roll her eyes, and say something to bruise his ego. Or, better yet, she would discard her clothes and join him.

A small knock came from his door and he stood, letting the water drip off of his body. "One moment," he called, reaching for his silk Lannister robe that had been a gift from his father on his last nameday. It seemed that everything his father sent him was the crimson and gold of his house in a desperate attempt to get Jaime to renounce his place in the Kingsguard and be Lord of Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister would be less than pleased to find out that Jaime had volunteered for a trial by combat to avenge anyone who was not his own flesh and blood.

He secured the robe around himself and walked over to the door. No sooner did he have it open than Saoirse was slipping inside the room. She wore a dark cloak with a deep hood, her mead-colored hair pulled back in a hasty fashion. Under the cloak was a dark chemise and black trousers. Jaime smiled to himself as he thought of the ease with which those items of clothing could slip off her small but muscular frame.

He opened his mouth to comment on her attire, but before he could speak her hand collided with his left cheek, the slap echoing around his chambers.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?!" she demanded, her tone angry and brittle.

"Well so much for all the support," he chuckled as he felt the side of his face throb. No doubt it would soon be a shade of crimson to match his robe. For a small woman, she could pack a lot of power into a slap.

"Shut up, damn you! Ser Vardis may be old but he's built like a goddamn mountain!" Her words came out in a hiss. There was a fire behind her eyes that he hadn't seen in years; panic. She was worried for him in the upcoming trial by combat. A part of him bristled; did she doubt his ability? Of course not, he thought, no one in the realm could have less doubt than a woman whose attacker he'd slain before her very eyes.

"I think that moniker has already been taken," he teased, trying to break the tension evident in her body.

"Stop making jokes!"

"Saoirse, I did this for you. This is our chance to avenge your father, that's what you want right? Lysa's head on a spike?" Jaime stepped close to her and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her dark clothes. Her angry resolve softened with his touch, exactly what he had been hoping for with the gesture.

"Yes but-"

He interrupted her, "So I'm going to do what I do best and ensure that happens." She was staring the ground, avoiding his gaze. Her lips pursed and her jaw tight, he couldn't tell what she was thinking but knew it was not good.

"Why?" she finally asked, the word a mere whisper upon her lips. In that moment she looked uncharacteristically small. It is true she was short of stature, her limbs slender but muscular. However, this was a different sort of small. This was a shrinkage of spirit. Her shoulders hunched forward, her hands clutched in front of her breasts. Normally she held her back straight, her chin strong, and appeared as imposing as the mountains of the Vale. But now she had crumbled, the stresses of the last few weeks taking their toll.

"Why? Because your father was a kind man, and he deserves to be avenged." As gently as possible, he ran his hands down her upper arms. She pulled herself out of his grasp suddenly, moving toward the open window but careful to stay back from it lest someone below see her. They were a few stories off the ground, but one couldn't be too careful.

She hugged herself, her back turned to him, "So this is all about my father, then? You only mean to deliver justice for his murder, nothing more?"

Jaime could tell that she was trying to lead him into a trap, he just didn't know what it was. He would have to answer carefully.

"If that is all you would like it to be, then yes."

"I would prefer that," she turned her head so he could see the profile of her face perfectly outlined by the bright torch behind it. Her answer had been cold but Jaime could feel the heat spread from his chest to his limbs. She was practically ethereal in the low light of his chambers, her pale skin in sharp contrast against the blackness of her clothes. Her icy blue eyes resembled Valyrian steel, and could slice him to ribbons just as easily.

He moved his hands to his hips, "Might I inquire as to why?"

She turned to him fully now, her dark cloak billowing out around her in an ominous cloud before settling at her sides once more. Now he could see her eyes of steel were brimming with tears, probably the reason she had turned away from him.

"If you volunteered because of your...feelings for me, and you happened to lose the contest, I would never forgive myself," her voice trembled as she confessed this to him. Jaime felt the tug of a string in his chest, but he didn't know what to do. How to help her. How to make that helpless look in her eyes disappear.

"I chose to fight to avenge the honorable Jon Arryn," he said, using her preferred justification even though the words felt wrong as they passed his lips, "Nothing more."

She seemed to accept his answer and swiped at a few stray tears. "Good. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

She brushed past him, and was out the door before he could protest. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. Obviously, she knew how he felt about her. Their past antics proved it; stolen kisses, ungraceful groping, a few moments of mad, unrestrained lust and want over the last several years. While their occasional trysts were satisfying, for the first time in his life Jaime Lannister was aching for more.

He had been standing in the shadows of her life for too long. It was rather difficult, however, for Jaime to admit his feelings for a woman who was not Cersei. His twin, his equal in birth, his other half. The woman who had delivered him three healthy children, although he could never acknowledge them as his own.

When Saoirse had left after her assault, it had been surprisingly difficult for Jaime to set aside his feelings for her. Absence, he found, did make the heart grow fonder, but at the same time he was able to put his feelings for her on a high shelf in his mind and forget about it. Indeed, until he caught her throwing knives in the tiltyard he had forgotten how much he adored her.

And then, not a full moon's turn later, she had disappeared to Myr. That time, it was much more difficult for him to set her aside. In the grand scheme of his life, did he want to be Cersei's source of pleasure, a Kingsguard who made the whoremonger king a cuckold, or the knight in shining armor for Saoirse, a man of honor who murdered the sot who raped her and wanted to do nothing else with his life but please her. Gods, he hated to admit it to himself. But he wanted her. All of her.

It seemed such an agonizing decision, but in the end it had been one of the easiest that Jaime had ever made.

Saoirse, not Cersei, was his future.

He only wished he had the words to fully express it to her. For now, he would let his actions speak. Even if she didn't wish to hear.

* * *

 _Saoirse_

She cursed herself for being so stupid. Saoirse Arryn was many things, but skilled at sneaking around the Red Keep at night was not one of them. Purposefully dressing in dark clothing and dodging from shadow to shadow was more tedious than effective. It had taken her much longer to cross the keep to the White Tower than anticipated. Now she strode down the hall with no guard and a hand poised to reach for one of her knives should the need arise.

She was hyper-aware of her surroundings; she always was at night. She noted every sound, her eyes searching the area around her, she mentally checked to make sure she had at least three easily-accessible knives on different parts of her body. It was a reflex now, borne out of the fact that she knew she could take down an attacker rather than the fear of being attacked. She was the predator now, not the prey.

She could smell Littlefinger before he crossed her path, and when he did Saoirse was greeted by his typical shit-eating grin.

"My my, Lady Saoirse, out and about at this late hour? You're not up to anything scandalous, are you?" he queried, but his words only seemed half-joking. Saoirse knew it was probably less than that.

"If I am, I'm sure one of your informants will tell you soon enough," she scoffed as she tossed her hair back, "Unless you are doing your own spying nowadays?"

He chuckled mirthlessly, "I have not stooped so low yet, My Lady. I was actually hoping to make sure our deal was still in place, now that Lysa's demise is seemingly imminent."

His cat and canary smile remained plastered on his sharp face, but Saoirse could feel spiteful satisfaction rise within her.

"It is not, Lord Baelish. Our deal hinged on your testimony, which you did not give."

"My Lady, forgive me, but I was not given the chance."

"I am most certain you did not want the chance, My Lord. I have it on good authority that you were the one who reminded her of the trial by combat option, now why would that be?" She was goading him, which she knew was not the most advisable option but seven hells did it feel good to have the upper hand over him.

"Perhaps I did not wish to reveal to the court my past with Lysa."

"That may not have been necessary. You were to tell the court that she was obsessed with you. The details of your...dalliances with my stepmother needn't have come up at all. No, you were trying to grasp my father's seat that much sooner and not lose face in court. Our deal is most certainly off." she smirked at him and tried to move past him, but he stepped into her path.

"Come now, Lady Hand, surely you wouldn't renege on our deal? Especially since I all but guaranteed Lysa's death."

"You've done no such thing. Ser Vardis may be old, but he was a fearsome warrior."

"The King was once a fierce warrior as well."

"You will watch your tongue, My Lord, or I shall see it removed." Saoirse had had enough of Littlefinger's meddling in her affairs. He would have the Vale over her cold, dead corpse. For the second time that night, a man gripped her upper arms. This time was much less enjoyable, as Littlefinger's little fingers dug into her biceps painfully as he pinioned her arms against her body.

"You listen to me, girl," His grey-green eyes were full of malice and she slipped one arm down to her lower back, grabbing a knife without his notice. Before he could continue, she pushed the tip of the blade against his belly and his words died on his tongue.

"Go ahead and threaten me, Baelish, no one would miss you." She pushed the blade until it slid through the thick fabric of his velvet doublet and he shoved her away from him. The mockingbird's feathers were ruffled, but what did it expect, going against a falcon? He smoothed his hair and squared his shoulders before meeting Saoirse's eyes again, the same malice in his gaze.

"You will regret this, Lady Arryn," he growled before roughly shoving past her and continuing down the corridor. She looked over her shoulder to catch him in her peripheral vision, only to make sure that he left her in peace for once and for all.

He turned the corner, and she resumed her walk back to the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

 _Renly_

Lady Saoirse had called an emergency meeting of the Small Council, and as usual Renly was the first to arrive. Loras was constantly mocking him for his compulsive punctuality. When his squire had given him the news, he hadn't given any details. Most likely because Lady Saoirse hadn't provided any.

As the rest of the members trickled in, Renly made friendly chit chat with Varys, who as usual sat next to him. Eventually Lady Saoirse entered the room with one of her handsome guards and called the meeting to order. Her hair was a mess, and she looked as if she hadn't slept the night before. It had been three days since the announcement that Jaime Lannister would be the champion for the crown in the upcoming Trial by Combat, which Renly had fought against announcing as it might scare Ser Vardis Egen further into hiding.

Perhaps the gold cloaks had found Ser Vardis already? Unlikely that she would call a meeting for that, but one couldn't help but speculate. Renly thought to himself as he picked at a stray thread on the sleeve of his doublet. This one was old, perhaps time to retire and replace it. He would have it cleaned, tailored, and given to a young lordling in court who desired attention. Perhaps Lancel Lannister, the Queen's cousin and King's squire. A plain-faced, jumpy boy of six-and-ten at most. He operated mostly in the shadows of court, because Robert would often drag him front and center to berate him. Poor boy. He could use an ally, just as Renly could've when he was in the same situation.

"My lords, I apologize for the urgency of this meeting, but I am afraid that we have an urgent matter to discuss. As you can see, Lord Baelish is not with us today. I was informed only this morning that he has left the city. This leaves us without a Master of Coin, which seems an urgent enough matter to call you all here to hear suggestions for a new one."

"My Lady Hand," Stannis chimed in, "Are we so sure that Lord Baelish will not return?"

"Lord Varys, have you heard anything on this matter?" Saoirse asked. She remained standing while the men were all comfortably seated. She was an odd woman, to be sure, but Renly had always enjoyed her presence in the capitol. The two of them talked of fashion and Dorne and their respective homes (The Eyrie had always been a sort of fascination for Renly), and she was among the first to know of his predilections. He trusted her to keep his secret.

Varys nodded, "One of my little birds saw Lord Baelish slip onto a cargo ship headed for Braavos last night. My bird saw that he did have bags with him, and they looked heavy."

"And you didn't think to say anything?" Stannis demanded from across the table. To Renly, Stannis had always been the perfect example of the septa's warning. "Your face will freeze like that if you be not careful!" Stannis's face was frozen in a permanent scowl, which was understandable given the circumstances of his life. A wife who hated him, a disfigured daughter, and a tempting high priestess always whispering in his ear.

"I did not think it strange at the time, Lord Stannis. Lord Baelish often travels to Braavos for loans from the Iron Bank, does he not?" Varys countered, keeping a level head as ever. Stannis grumbled an answer and shrunk back in his chair, sulking like a scolded dog.

"Thank you for your information, Lord Varys, no matter the timing," Saoirse said graciously, still standing. "What matters now is finding Littlefinger's replacement. If he expects to leave with no prior notice, he will find his seat taken when he returns. That goes for anyone at this table, not just Littlefinger."

Renly smirked to himself. Gods, this woman had moxy. If he were the kind to find the opposite sex attractive, neither of them would still be single.

"Perhaps one of the Tyrell men?" Ser Barristan suggested. He looked a bit haggard to Renly, as if he'd been up all night. Perhaps he'd taken the overnight shift last night.

Renly smirked, "I hear Prince Oberyn of Dorne has a head for figures."

"Your flippancy is not helping, My Lord." Saoirse glared at him. He had heard first hand about her exploits with the Red Viper upon her return from Dorne, and liked to remind her of that fact from time to time.

"I am not being flippant, Lady Hand. Having a dornishman on the small council could help forge and ensure alliances. And I hear that Prince Oberyn is quite the intellectual."

"We do not need an alliance with the Dornish," Stannis insisted before muttering, "Bunch of brutes."

"Keep a civil tongue, Lord Stannis." Saoirse warned as she began to pace.

"Lord Renly may have a point. The Red Viper did start forging a maester's chain." Varys added.

Ser Barristan chimed in, "But how would the King feel having a dornishman in court? They fought against him in the rebellion.

Saoirse stopped her pacing just over Renly's shoulder and reasoned, "My father was able to broker peace. Robert has respected that peace until now, I don't see why he would object to a Martell in court."

"Then I think that settles that?" Renly asked, looking over his shoulder at the Lady Hand, whose slender fingers were touching her chin as she considered.

"I am not sure he will accept. He hates leaving Dorne, and he may insist he bring his daughters to court as well."

"How many daughters does he have?" Stannis asked. Renly could see the thought of Shireen flicker across his face. Was his brother hoping that Shireen would make friends with one of the infamous Sand Snakes? One of the younger ones would be of an age with his niece, so it wasn't a ridiculous notion.

"Eight. The youngest is five or six I believe." Saoirse answered.

The door crashed open then, causing a few in the room to jump. Renly's older brother the King stomped into the room. "They've found him!" he bellowed so loudly that the sound reverberated through Renly's bones. "Saoirse, they found that Vardis fellow, he's on his way into the city!"

"What?" Renly could tell she was fighting a smile. It had risen to her eyes, but she kept her lips in a straight line. Renly felt free to smirk on her behalf. Lysa Arryn had been a tiresome, shrill woman. Her death would be a relief.

Captain of the City Watch, Janos Slynt, was at the King's side. "My Lady, he was apprehended on the Kingsroad. He demands to meet with Lady Lysa before he will agree to a Trial by Combat."

"Let him see her. Give him a day's rest and a day's preparation if he so wishes, as a gesture of goodwill." Robert sucked in a great amount of air, which meant he was about to yell at her a great deal, but she held up her hand to stop him. "Would you not wish the same courtesy if you were in his position, Your Grace?"

She'd always had Robert in the palm of her hand. Renly remembered their first meeting upon her arrival in King's Landing. Robert had laughed and smiled and hoisted her in the air, nearly crushing her in a giant hug. He remembered being jealous of the blonde haired girl who had stolen his brother's affections, for all Renly received when he arrived in the capitol was a gruff nod and a comment about how skinny he was for a boy of eight. Over the years, he came to realize that Robert saw Saoirse as the younger sister he'd never had and grew out of his jealousy.

Robert's chest deflated, "I suppose."

"Ser Janos, will you see that he is given a room and allowed to practice?" Saoirse asked. The bald Commander nodded silently and she dismissed him.

"Is that all, Your Grace?"

Robert gestured to the table, "What's goin' on?"

"Lady Saoirse called us together to discuss replacing Lord Baelish as Master of Coin. He has mysteriously disappeared, it seems." Renly chimed in, meeting his brother's eye.

Robert shuffled his feet, unsure of himself. "Any contenders?"

"We had nearly settled on inviting Oberyn Martell to take the position." Lord Varys explained gently. He always took that tone with Robert, as if he was speaking to one of his little birds.

The King nodded, "Cersei will hate that," he looked to Saoirse, "Do you think he's he best fit for the job?"

"I do. I was about to draft a letter to send to him."

"Well, if he wants it the position is his, I guess." Robert shrugged, as if he didn't really care about the outcome. "Even if they were loyalists during the war."

"My father worked hard on your behalf to broker peace with Dorne, and the Martells could be valuable allies." Saoirse reminded him, a slight tone to her voice.

"I am aware of that. Do what you will, Saoirse, you have my complete trust." He waved a hand as he took long strides toward the door and saw himself out. The silence that settled on the room was nearly palpable until the Lady Hand cleared her throat.

"That will be all for today, My Lords." she dismissed. Her voice was strong, but her posture told a different was the last out of the room, and saw her slump into the chair at the head of the table.

His brother had a way of doing that to people, Renly thought on the way back to his chambers. Robert was a loud, boisterous presence at best, a brewing storm at worst. He would suck all the energy and air from the room to let it fuel his own gaiety, leaving nothing left behind. With Robert on the throne, the country was a rudderless boat set to drift in a tempest. The people on the lower decks were starving while those in the upper cabins were reveling in excess. It was only a matter of time before the ship came to rest upon some shoals and began to sink.

But with Saoirse as second in command, Renly mused, the ship may yet avoid the reefs and continue sailing for years to come.

He could only hope as much.

* * *

 **It's getting hot in here, you should leave a review!**


	9. The God's Justice

**Here is Chapter 9! The Trial by Combat is here!**

 **As always, thank you for your support! I'm glad to hear your feedback and hope that you're all enjoying it!**

* * *

 _Saoirse_

Saoirse had to stifle a yawn. The day of Lysa's Trial by Combat was preceded by a sleepless night. She had tried to keep her mind off of the battle and the chance that she could lose, but failed miserably. However, she had managed to distill her anxieties; Losing was problematic for her on multiple fronts. The first, Lysa would walk free. Her father's killer, the catspaw of Littlefinger, free to return to the Vale with her son and grow up poisoning him against Saoirse as she had poisoned the Lord of the Eyrie.

The second, if the crown were to lose this trial by combat it could weaken her already tenuous hold on her position. Littlefinger's spies were everywhere, eager to bring any news of her incompetence (real or imaginary) back to their master. Thanks to Varys, she was painfully aware of what certain members of the nobility thought of having a woman as Hand of the King. She was the driving force behind this trial; if she failed to put Lysa's head on a spike she would appear foolish and weak for wasting the crown's time.

Thirdly, and most troublingly, for both of those scenarios to occur Jaime would have to lose. Ser Vardis was an honorable man, but the terms were to the death, confirmed by Lysa when she'd spoken to Ser Vardis. If he was in a position to kill the mighty Kingslayer and end the trial favorably for his lady, he would. She trusted Jaime's skill, as she'd been sure to watch his practices in the tiltyard. He was still magnificently graceful when he fought, reinforcing the confidence she'd presented to King Robert.

While pondering the possibility of his demise, she'd been forced to confront a truth she'd been pushing away for years. That truth was she was in love with the Kingslayer, and had been for years. Even before he'd killed her attacker, she'd felt an attraction to him but had never been able to pin down the exact feeling. Flirtation, infatuation, attraction, something that had started off innocent had taken years to evolve into the heavy adoration that she now knew was love. Hoping he would win, but dreading the possibility of his loss, she sat on Robert's right on the dais.

She couldn't seem to keep still. Her feet couldn't stop bouncing and her hands fiddled with the moon and falcon pendant she wore, tracing the mother-of-pearl moon and feeling the facets of the falcon's sapphire wings. It had been a gift from her father on her sixteenth nameday, and seemed an appropriate trinket to wear on this, the day of Lysa's reckoning.

The contest was held on the tourney grounds within the castle walls, in the melee arena. To Robert, this was another day at a tourney. Saoirse hoped it didn't strike his fancy to hold another tourney soon; the funds for tourneys had gone to other, more important ventures. Namely, repaying the Iron Bank the crown's debt. The bulk of the debt that was left was to Tywin Lannister, and Saoirse was still searching for an answer on that front. What she wouldn't give to have the crown's debts as her most pressing issue right now. Or, better yet, make it Oberyn's problem.

As it was, she couldn't help her eyes flicking over to the tent where Jaime was preparing. She watched him carefully, trying to find any sign of trouble as a squire helped him secure his armor. Seeing none she tore her eyes away, her inner voice hard and brusque as it tried to remain rational.

"Seven hells, women," Robert's voice rang out from her left. As she looked toward the king she met Cersei's green eyes, recognizing the look of flustered panic that she found there. "With the way you two are carrying on, one would think the fate of the realms rests on this stupid trial."

"Perhaps it does," Cersei's voice was bitter as she snapped at her husband.

Saoirse rolled her eyes at the bickering monarchs, knowing that Cersei was just as anxious as she was; where Saoirse was set to lose the only man she'd ever truly loved, the queen was set to lose a brother. A twin, no less. If she wasn't in her own panic, she would've pitied the queen.

As it was, however, she dared a glance back to Jaime's staging area just in time to see him toss back his golden sheath of hair and lower his helm. Today he wore lighter Lannister armor rather than the white armor of the Kingsguard. His white Kingsguard cloak, however, hung from his powerful shoulders. Saoirse almost wished she'd insisted on being down there with him, to wish him luck in the battle and tell him of her feelings for him, but that would raise suspicions of the court.

On the far end of the arena, Lysa reached up to kiss Ser Vardis on the cheek before the older knight put on his winged helm. His armor was heavy steel, and his cloak was the azure-and-white of House Egen, the sun, moon, and star embroidered across his shoulders. She thought it ironic that he was wearing the helm, which had been a gift from Lord Jon Arryn, while defending the woman who murdered his liege lord. In that moment, she wanted nohing more but to stomp down there and rip it off his head. Perhaps beat him with it too. But she simply clamped her hands into fists and tried to remain calm. Jaime would see justice done, she had to keep reminding herself of that. The crowd cheered as the two combatants approached the dais, kneeling before Robert.

The king rose and lifted his hands to quiet the crowd, "Today we gather to let the gods decide the fate of Lysa Arryn, accused of poisoning her husband Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King. Who fights for Lady Lysa?"

Ser Vardis rose to his feet, "Ser Vardis Egen of the Vale."

"Have you any last requests?" Robert asked of the standing man, who shook his head.

"No, Your Grace."

"Very well. Who fights for the crown?" Robert asked and Jaime stood. Saoirse felt an ominous chill run up her spine.

"Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, Your Grace."

"Have you any last requests?" Robert asked in a bored tone. He wanted to get on with the fight, wanted all of this unsavory matter settled. Saoirse couldn't blame him; she was more nervous about the outcome.

"Yes, Your Grace." Jaime answered. A low gasp and murmurs spread throughout the crowd and Robert eyed Jaime suspiciously. Cersei's beautiful features twisted in confusion, but she remained silent.

"If it is in my power to grant it, you may have it. Speak, Ser."

"I am afraid it is not in your power to grant it at all, Your Grace," Jaime turned his body toward Saoirse and bowed slightly, "For I wish to wear the favor of Lady Saoirse Arryn."

Not wanting the rest of court to see how shocked and dumbfounded she was Saoirse rose to her feet, keeping her eyes on Jaime. She slid her hands behind her neck, fumbling with the clasp of the necklace as she stepped toward the edge of the dais. Butterflies erupted in her stomach and spread through her limbs as she approached him.

"My favor, Ser Jaime, may you return it swiftly," she held up the necklace for all to see before she bent down and clasped it around his neck, tucking the pendant under his breastplate to prevent Ser Vardis from using it to his advantage. Before she could stand back up, he gripped her wrist.

"I swear on my life, I will." She looked into the eye slit of his helm and could see the glint of green within. His eyes were locked on hers, and warmth spread through her.

"Good luck," she whispered before disengaging from him. As she turned back to her seat she caught a glimpse of a scowl on Queen Cersei's face, but paid it no mind.

Robert hitched up his trousers impatiently, "Well, if that's all done, let's get on with it! Sers, proceed to the center ring and await the signal."

Both armored knights bowed to their king and made their way to the center ring of the melee pit, each assuming an attack position and waiting for the cannon.

The cannon blast was deafening as it echoed around the pit, leaving Saoirse's ears ringing as the two knights circled each other, Ser Vardis moving to strike first. Jaime easily parried his blow, using the inertia to spin closer to his opponent and smash his fist against the other man's helm. He was going to make quick work of this, Saoirse was certain.

Ser Vardis stumbled back a few steps, but shook it off and tried to strike him again, but Jaime was faster than that. Quick as a flash, he knocked the elder knight's sword to the side and once again moved in to land a blow.

However, Ser Vardis had been expecting that, and managed to strike a hard blow to Jaime's side with the hilt of his sword, the sound of crunching armor making Saoirse flinch. She knew that impact had caused at least bruised ribs. Jaime was knocked down to one knee with the blow, giving Ser Vardis the upper hand.

Ser Vardis did not relent, and swiped at the back of Jaime's other leg causing it to bend at the knee and opening a gash of red. Saoirse gasped as Jaime was forced to his hands and knees. Using the younger knight's position to his advantage, Ser Vardis stomped on Jaime's right hand, his sword hand, breaking his fingers as Jaime cried out in pain. This fight was not going as well as Saoirse had hoped and her mind began to race as Ser Vardis brought the point of his sword down in an attempt to get under Jaime's armor, but his aim was off and the Lannister was spared another injury.

At some point in the fight, Saoirse's hand had risen to her lips and she clamped it over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror as she willed Jaime to stand, to ignore the pain he must be in and rally.

Miraculously, Jaime had managed to get to his feet. His sword was now in his left hand, the trousers under his armor were soaked with blood from his leg wound, but he stood strong. Something in the way he held himself so confidently told Saoirse that the fight would soon be over. He was going to finish the fight his way.

Jaime charged the older knight, knocking him off balance with his shoulder and swiping at his helm, the overly ornate winged helm jerking the elder knight's head back, exposing the underside of his chin. Saoirse knew what he would do before he did it. Seeing the patch of skin, Jaime swiped up with his sword, intent on burying the point in the older knight's skull. Before it made impact, she closed her eyes tight. While she was no stranger to violence and no friend to Ser Vardis, he was still a Valeman.

The crowd went wild with cheers and stomping as Jaime extracted his sword from Ser Vardis, hoisting it above his head in victory. The old knight crumpled to the ground, and Saoirse was glad Jaime had made it a quick death.

 _He's done it,_ she thought. _He's won._

"Lysa Arryn," Lord Renly's voice rang out over the cheering crowd as Cersei joined the Grand Maester to go aid Jaime as he walked out of the pit, "The gods have judged you guilty of murder. You will be executed in the sight of gods and men tomorrow morning. May the Seven have mercy on your soul."

Lysa's face was pale as two guards escorted her away. Her eyes, full of panic and hate, caught Saoirse's on her way out. She half expected her stepmother to cry out, to demand a retrial or decry Saoirse in some way, but instead she simply glowered and went quietly.

Reluctantly, for she would rather stay behind to tend to Jaime's wounds and thank him in person, Saoirse filed out of the stadium with the rest of court. Her head was clear and her heart was light for soon Lysa would no longer interfere in her life. She'd be free of that horrible shrew within a matter of hours.

Her father had given Jaime a handsome new sword after he'd vanquished her attacker, and now Saoirse pondered what she might give him for saving her once again and ensuring justice be done.

Perhaps something a little more permanent than a sword, she thought as she mounted the steps of the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

 _Catelyn_

Her heart was heavy, but she had accepted her sister's fate. The gods had found her guilty, there was nothing Catelyn could do to change their verdict. However, she wasn't completely powerless where her sister was concerned.

For her sister had a son. It was for his benefit that she mounted the stairs in the Tower of the Hand. He was about Bran's age, but Catelyn had yet to meet him. Now that his mother was set to be executed, she knew she had to intervene on his behalf. Even if these damned stairs never seemed to end.

Once she reached the top, she took a moment to rearrange herself before approaching the two guards that flanked either side of the door.

"Lady Catelyn Stark to see the Hand of the King." she requested confidently. In truth, she did not know how the Hand would take her suggestion, but from what she'd seen so far Saoirse Arryn seemed to be a rational woman. Would she understand that Catelyn, as a mother herself, only had the best interest of the child at heart?

One of the guards ducked into the room behind the door, emerging a few seconds later and holding the door open for Lady Catelyn. She thanked the guard and entered. The solar was spacious, with a long dining table nearer the fireplace on the opposite end of the room from where Lady Saoirse sat, bent over some scrolls. The young woman looked up when she heard the door close.

"If you've come to beg me for your sister's life, Lady Catelyn, it won't work." she said, her expression blank and slightly unnerving. Catelyn had heard tell of the Hand's beauty, and found the rumors to be true. But there was a facade around the girl, stone walls erected after her attack no doubt. She seemed as formidable as the Eyrie itself. Her shockingly blue eyes were as cold and hard as the mountains she hailed from.

"Of course not, Lady Hand. I accept the gods' verdict for my sister. I had merely come to inquire after the fate of her son, my nephew."

The girl's icy gaze faltered and she sighed, leaning back in her chair. "To tell you the truth, Lady Stark, I hadn't given it much thought. Without his mother here, there's no reason for him to stay. I cannot tend to him as a mother would, and the royal children all despise him because Lysa warned them against befriending him. I would hate to send him back to the Eyrie, all alone except for a small vanguard. But it seems that I cannot keep him here and have him grow into the man he is destined to be. There's an expression in the Vale, stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it seems I'm there."

"If I may, My Lady, I was hoping you would let me foster him at Winterfell. He has cousins of an age with him there, and having my sister's blood so nearby would be a great comfort to me." Catelyn made to sit in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk, Lady Saoirse's falcon eyes following her every move.

"How is your Maester? I'm sure you've heard of young Robbie's condition. He will need a Maester of great skill to keep his fits under control, especially in the North."

"Luwin is just such a maester. He's birthed all of my children save Robb, who was born at Riverrun."

"Luwin, you say? I will have my maester open communications with him. That is my only hesitation on this matter."

"Truly?" Catelyn's mouth broke into a smile. She did not assume it would be so simple to convince the Lady Hand to give up the only blood she had left.

Saoirse shrugged, "Of course. I've known your husband since I was younger than my brother is now. I would trust him with my life, trusting him with the care of my half-brother is no large difference. So long as your maester is up to the task."

"I am sure he will be. Luwin is tireless and his chain is long."

"Good, Bronson?" Saoirse called and the guard who had seen Catelyn in entered the room.

"Yes, My Lady Hand?"

"Fetch Maester Colemon, tell him to bring young Lord Robert with him. And send for some bread and cheese and wine, I'm feeling rather peckish," she commanded of her guard, who bowed and left the room. Catelyn could tell that on some level, Lady Saoirse Arryn had been groomed for making commands of her inferiors. Though it was more likely that she received the same schooling all firstborn daughters received; how to run a household rather than run a country. Lady Catelyn saw that it mattered not, Lady Saoirse was absolutely capable as Hand of the King. Just as Ned assured she would be.

The room fell into a silence as they waited for the young man and his maester to arrive, Lady Saoirse going back to poring over the papers in front of her. From what Lady Catelyn could see they were charts of figures, page after page of them. As the Lady of Winterfell, she was no stranger to the same sort of charts.

She must've noticed Catelyn staring, for she piped up, "If you hadn't guessed, the crown is massively in debt. I've managed to rid us of some of it, but I remain puzzled as to how to deal with...the rest."

"I wish I had a word of advice for you, Lady Hand," Catelyn started, "but Winterfell has not run a deficit in many years."

Saoirse's eyes narrowed on Lady Catelyn before softening, the girl's face lighting up with a laugh, "No, I assume it hasn't. Stalwart, stubborn Ned would never allow it."

Catelyn smiled at the jab at her husband, for it was true. "My Lady is correct. He would not."

The door creaked open and a thin, balding man with a grey Maester's robe and a chain around his too-long neck stepped in, leading a small, doe-eyed boy and the boy's nurse behind him. This, Catelyn assumed, was her nephew. He was awfully small for a boy of six, being only a little bigger than Rickon who was only three. For however much his sister was a fully-grown falconess, this boy was merely a hatchling. A sickly one at that. She wondered if he would even survive the trip to his ancestral home, much less to Winterfell.

"Maester, thank you for joining us. Robbie, come here, there's someone I'd like you to meet." Saoirse's tone was gentle with her younger brother and the boy ran into her open arms, leaving the Maester behind him.

"Colemon, I need you to get in touch with the Maester of Winterfell, a man called Luwin," she looked to Catelyn for confirmation as she lifted the boy into her lap and folded her arms around him, "I will rely on your approval of him before moving forward with my plans."

"Is that all, My Lady?" Colemon asked, eyeing the spread of food that had arrived moments before he had.

"Yes. I need your approval as soon as possible, so expediency is necessary. Send the raven tonight."

The Maester bowed and left the room as Lady Saoirse muttered something to her brother, who had curled up in her lap like a cat. Seconds later, she had placed the boy on the chair and gone to the table, gathering some food onto a plate. Catelyn watched as she slathered soft cheese and honey onto a fresh hunk of bread.

"You remind me of Mother," a small voice said from behind the desk, snapping Cat's attention back. Robbie was sitting up on his knees on his sister's chair, leaning his hands on the top of the desk in an attempt to get a closer look at Catelyn.

She smiled warmly, "That's because your mother is my sister. I am your aunt, Catelyn Stark."

"My mother's going to die. She did a bad thing," the boy leaned back, resting on his haunches as his sad blue eyes looked over to Saoirse, who was now returning with a plate full of food.

"Yes," Catelyn agreed quietly, "Yes she did."

Saoirse took her seat next to the boy once more, "This is your aunt who lives in the north. In Winterfell."

Catelyn could tell from Saoirse's tone that Winterfell was an object of fascination for the boy, and his overly-large eyes grew into saucers as he looked from his sister to Catelyn and back again. She welcomed the change of subject as the boy perked up. "Do you really live in Winterfell?"

"Yes, I do. I also have two sons about your age. And an older one named Robb."

The boy giggled, "That's almost my name!"

"She wants you to go live in Winterfell with her, but I told her that you wouldn't be interested in that." Saoirse said, shoving a slice of bread and cheese into the boy's hand and encouraging him to eat.

"What? Why?" The boy turned to his sister, his wide eyes filling with panic as Lady Catelyn picked up on the younger woman's plan.

"I thought you didn't want to go live anywhere else. Was I wrong?" She asked, playing dumb.

"Yes! Yes! You were wrong!" He stood up on his sister's lap and started bouncing with enthusiasm. The boy lacked proper table manners, but that was easy enough to correct and, in all likelihood, a result of Lysa's coddling. While she always thought herself a kind mother, she was not one to coddle her children. Catelyn believed in, and the North necessitated, discipline.

"Well, if you sit down and eat three big bites of bread I'm sure she will reconsider."

The boy did as he was told, surprisingly enough, and took three large bites in a row, not taking time to chew them properly before he asked, "Can I come live in Winterfell wif you?" through a mouthful of food.

Catelyn indulged him just this once, "Of course you may."

"Lady Catelyn and I will need to discuss the particulars now, Robbie. Go with Draya and get ready for bed." Saoirse nudged the boy off of her lap and he went with the nurse who had been standing by the door.

"If you will forgive me, my Lady, he is alarmingly small for a boy of his age," Catelyn started, knowing her sister had been sensitive when it came to matters of the boy's health in her letters.

Lady Saoirse sighed, "It's his fits, I'm afraid. Lysa would never let him much out of her sight and insisted he stay on the breast. My father wanted him to start swordplay and lessons with a Maester last year, you should've heard the fit Lysa threw," the young Lady Hand leaned back in her chair, popping a grape into her mouth as she did.

"I see," Catelyn nodded, wishing she was more surprised.

"The way I see it, Lady Catelyn, the North could make my brother a man worthy of our father's titles, or the North could break him. Unlike Lysa, I am willing to take that risk." She stood and Cat did as well, "When were you hoping to return to the North?"

"Within a fortnight, My Lady, if that suits you,"

"I will confer with the King on this matter and let you know what we decide tomorrow." Lady Saoirse stuck out her hand for Lady Catelyn to shake, and she did. "I am sorry you're losing your sister, Lady Catelyn. If you would like to say goodbye, I will make it happen. I'm sure Robbie would like to see his mother one last time as well."

"I would very much like that, yes. I would even take the boy with me. If that's something you approve of, that is."

Relief flooded the younger woman's face as she escorted Lady Catelyn to the door, "Yes, I would appreciate that very much. I'll send you a note in the morning."

The two women agreed to their plan, and Lady Catelyn took her leave. Her heart felt a little lighter after finally meeting her nephew and securing a way to say goodbye to her little sister.

She returned to her chambers and found that sleep came a little easier than she expected.

* * *

 _Jaime_

It was late when the milk of the poppy haze wore off. He was back in his chambers and his injuries started throbbing anew.

Damn that Valeman. He hoped the rat bastard was rotting in the seven hells for what he did to his hand.

Pycelle had reset the bones easily enough, but when Jaime asked when he would be able to wield a sword again the old man had delivered a blow worse than any other he had taken that day.

"Unfortunately, my lad, the breaks were extensive. You may not regain full use of this hand, only time will tell," he had said as simply as if Jaime had asked him the weather. Jaime had lunged at him, tearing the stitches in his leg and opening the wound anew, which earned him a shriek from Cersei and a strong dose of milk of the poppy.

He raised his right hand, looking at the complex splint in the moonlight. He turned his hand over, Pycelle's words ringing in his head and mind-numbing pain radiating up his arm. The dotty old maester should've just taken the damned thing off for all the pain he was in. What use was he as a man of the Kingsguard if he couldn't guard the king? He rested the broken, mangled hand on the bed once more and sighed. The pain was tolerable compared to the possibility of losing the skill that had shaped his entire life. Looking to his left he saw a goblet of wine sitting on the table next to his bed and he reached for it, assuming it contained more of the pain killing potion. He found that he no longer wished to be conscious.

Downing the wine, he felt something metal brush against his breastbone under his shirt. Saoirse's favor. In all the fracas after the fight, he'd forgotten to give it back to her. He extracted it from under his shirt and held it in front of his eyes as the pain began to subside. Milk of the poppy was a quick drug, and he was thankful for that.

The silver pendant was the crest of House Arryn, he recalled seeing Saoirse wear it on multiple occasions. If his memory served, she'd gotten it from her father on her sixteenth nameday. He remembered that day with shocking clarity.

He encountered her in the garden closest to the sea. She was sitting rather unladylike in a chair, nose-deep in a book, her brow knitted together and her fingers absentmindedly playing with the pendant.

"And what is that shiny new trinket in your hand?" he asked, giving her a start.

"Oh, Ser Jaime. It was a nameday gift from my father. Do you like it?" she asked, holding it out for him to inspect. He leaned closer, but kept a respectful distance as he inspected it.

"It's your nameday?"

"Yes, Ser Jaime, it is. My sixteenth, as a matter of fact."

"Had I known that I would not have approached you empty-handed. I feel rather foolish now," he said, partly in jest.

She looked up at him, squinting in the bright sunlight, "You shouldn't feel foolish. You don't have to get me anything."

"Oh no, a gentleman always brings his lady a gift," he looked around and found a bush covered in white roses. Drawing his sword, he made a show of shearing one off of the bush for her. Kneeling in front of her in a flamboyant fashion, presenting it to her with a goofy smile on his face.

Instead of the giggle and smile and blush he expected, she straightened up in her seat and frowned. She accepted the flower, but stared at it with a blank, unreadable expression.

"Lady Saoirse? Did I do something wrong?" He asked, staring up into her face for a hint of what she might be thinking.

She sighed, "My father has made me a marriage pact. I'm to marry Willas Tyrell."

Jaime rose to his feet, not liking the feeling that he'd been punched in the gut by her news. Why had she hesitated in telling him? Why was her face so sad all of a sudden? Why did he care so much that her father was shipping her off to the Reach?

He cleared his throat, "I-I hear Highgarden is beautiful."

"Yes, I hear that too. He and his father are coming for a visit in a moon's turn," she added, avoiding his gaze. "I'm sure I'll hear all about it."

"I'm sure as well," he smiled at her joke, but wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. So he did just that, excusing himself from her presence and walking away. Cursing himself for his cowardice, for he had lived through much more horrible things in his life, he took a moment to turn back and look at her. She had gone back to her book, but he swore he could see a tear falling down her cheek. His suspicion was confirmed when she raised a hand to her cheek and wiped it away.

He wouldn't flatter himself by thinking he was the cause of her tears. Women tied a lot of emotion to the subject of marriage; too much, if Jaime had anything to say about it. If his relationship with Cersei was anything to go on, marriage vows were flimsy things.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of her. Cersei had blamed her for his injuries while Pycelle's assistant was sewing up Jaime's leg, but Jaime had insisted it was his idea to fight for the crown. He savored the look on her face when he'd asked for her favor. He'd glanced over at her after the fight and saw her beaming at him. If it hadn't been for the blood loss and pain in his hand he would've gone to her and wrapped her in his arms.

Visions of her accompanied him to a dreamless, pain-free sleep.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, please review!**


	10. To Winterfell!

**Hello again my lovelies! This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but I think it's worth it!**

 **Thanks for your continued support; I love hearing from you all!**

* * *

 _The King_

He was awake early that day, as he was anxious to see justice done. In fact, he was dressed and ready to go to the execution hours before they were set to depart.

The execution went off without a hitch. That horrid woman's final words were a declaration of her love for her son and Petyr Baelish, which Robert thought odd. He glanced over at Saoirse after her stepmother's head hit the ground and he could practically see the weight lift off her shoulders. To her left, he saw Cat comforting the young Arryn; the boy was no doubt upset at seeing his mother's head taken off her neck. He was a weak child, Robert had always thought so.

It was a shame, he thought, that the Kingslayer wasn't in attendance to see what his handiwork had wrought...perhaps handiwork wasn't the right word. News of the Kingslayer's mangled hand had spread through the Red Keep like wildfire the night previous, and Robert truly pitied the man. Losing the ability to fight, even temporarily, was distressing. Ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion he was forbidden from taking part in any sort of physical combat, either by his wife or his Hand. Even if war were to break out tomorrow, as King he would be expected to stay safely behind the walls of the Red Keep when he would be much happier in the field, wielding his warhammer against his enemies. If Robert had ever felt any sort of empathy with anyone, it was the Kingslayer. That thought disturbed him a bit, but he didn't dwell upon it.

Taking his dinner to his balcony he watched the sun descend over the city. This stinking, crime-ridden shithole that had been his home since he'd sat his ass on that damned throne. Seven hells, he hated being king. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to renounce the throne and go back to Storm's End.

The only thing that had stopped him from doing it before was that Jon had made it so he hadn't actually had to rule. The man's daughter, whom he had accepted as Hand to honor the wish of her dying father, was more insistent that he step up. Counting coppers bored him, and he would much rather spend the time doing what he was good at. But instead of absolutely hating it he found that ruling wasn't as terrible as he thought it to be.

For instance, a week prior to the trial Saoirse had involved him in the decision to provide food to an orphanage in Flea Bottom, the donations being taken from the extra about-to-turn wheat from The Reach. She insisted that Robert himself take the wheat to the orphanage. He ended up joking and playing and frolicking with the children for the entire afternoon. The experience had awakened something in Robert, a sense of fun that he had last felt while entertaining his oldest child, Mya Stone, before the rebellion and before well, everything.

Perhaps being king wasn't entirely terrible.

"Your Grace," Ser Arys called from the doorway, "Lady Saoirse to see you."

"Send her out here."

He kept his eyes on the city as Saoirse's light footsteps made their way out to the balcony.

"I come bearing news and I've made a decision," she said as she sat in the chair next to his. Robert held up his hand. Still in mourning, today's gown looked like she'd torn it off of a Dornish noblewoman. Black silk, tied about her waist with a blue sash embroidered with her house's sigil. It was loose, not showing much of any of her curves, and tied about the neck. By the gods she was lovely, and any man would be lucky to have her in his bed. Even after what had happened to her all those years ago.

"What, no good evening Your Grace?" He asked.

She glanced over to him before turning her eyes back to the view, "No. Anyway, it seems Oberyn has accepted Master of Coin. He and his guards and his two oldest daughters will be arriving in a moon's turn."

Robert grunted. He had no love for the Dornish, but Saoirse had made a good point in choosing to make an alliance with them. Robert would've prefered a marriage pact out of the deal, perhaps one of the man's bastards for Joffrey; gods know the boy deserved one. Cersei would object most heartily, and something about that pleased Robert.

"You trained with the daughters, yes?"

"Yes, I did. Obara and Nymeria. I'm surprised he isn't bringing Tyene as well," she mused, beckoning for some wine. "We still trade letters, you know."

"You and the - what do they call them? The Sword Snakes?"

Saoirse smiled, "The Sand Snakes. And I meant Oberyn but yes, Nym and I have exchanged letters in the time since I've left Dorne."

Robert looked over his goblet at her, "And is everything there...settled?"

She smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat. "I've decided to send young Robert to foster at Winterfell with Lady Catelyn. She says she will depart within a fortnight."

Robert leaned back in his chair, considering. "You think the boy will survive the trip?"

"He seems to be doing better as of late. He hasn't had a fit for at least a week," Saoirse explained, bringing her eyes back to Robert.

"I've been thinking, Sair…"

"That's new," she smirked at him and he glared in mock anger.

"Watch the cheek, woman," he pointed at her, "I've been cooped up in this damned keep for too long. If the boy is going to Winterfell, I say we all go!"

"How could you be thinking about going to Winterfell if I just brought it up?"

"I've been wanting to go somewhere for a while now. Why not go visit Ned and drop your brother there at the same time? In addition to that," he shifted in his seat, not wanting to discuss this particular topic with her at the moment, "I was hoping that Ned might...fill in as Hand."

"Fill in? Have...have I done something wrong?"

"No but...you should hear what the common folk are saying, Saoirse. They don't like that their King's hand is a woman...of your situation."

"I've heard their concerns. Varys keeps me up to date." Her voice was tight the way Cersei's got whenever Robert tried to intervene in her life or the lives of their children.

He would love to claim it wasn't because of her attack, but part of it was. It was that she was first, a woman, second, a woman of ill repute, and third, an unmarried woman of ill repute. Apparently the smallfolk had an issue with their king being counseled by a young, attractive, unmarried woman. With the king's reputation, it seemed they thought the two of them were having an affair. Robert had found the idea amusing until he'd seen the faces of the people as they'd passed to the Sept of Baelor that day.

It seemed the goodwill he had gained by visiting the orphanage had been forgotten.

They looked absolutely disgusted as he and the royal vanguard rode through the city. The air around the damn near silent crowd was tense; any second, Robert had expected them to start throwing rotted food, among worse things. He remembered when he'd rode into King's Landing to accept the throne.

The roar of the crowd had been deafening. The smallfolk chanted his name and had painted the crowned stag on the sides of buildings; he'd entered the Red Keep with his ears ringing and a large smile on his face.

That was a time of hope. He had looked toward the future and thought it to be bright.

Little had he known that it had been a mummer's flash before the murky brown light of his rule had settled over him.

As it stood he was still king, and a king needed a hand. Preferably one that the people didn't hate. Or think he was fucking.

"Saoirse, it's been seven years. There are still plenty of handsome young men to be had. Or so the women tell me," he smiled at her, but her face remained stony, "Willas Tyrell hasn't been able to make another match since you."

"I am aware of that. And I'm sure there are plenty of young men, but who says any of them will have me? I am a woman sullied, despoiled, a harlot who got what was coming to me," she muttered bitterly, almost under her breath.

He reached out and put a hand on hers, grasping it lightly, "Point me in the direction of whoever has said such things, and I will personally beat them senseless."

This earned him a smile; a crack in her stone facade.

"We can't go to Winterfell. If Oberyn arrives and no one is here he will see it as an insult."

Robert scoffed and waved his hand, "Eh, let him be insulted. They still call me Usurper down there," Saoirse shot him a look and he knew he had stepped out of line; that look hadn't changed since she was five years old. "Fine. I'll leave Renly as castellan."

"And you'll write a heartfelt apology as to your absence," she added and he sighed loudly.

"Fine. Go announce the trip to court and I'll start on that blasted letter."

"I'll wait until the morning. Most of court has turned in for the night." She rose to her feet and nodded at him, focusing on the sunset in front of her.

"Anything else, Lady Saoirse?"

She curtsied delicately, "No, Your Grace."

The sun was halfway gone on the horizon as Robert heard her leave the room. It was then that he noticed how sober he was.

Reaching for the flagon of wine, he hesitated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to bed without a drop to drink. Shrugging to himself, he poured himself a goblet. No sense in ruining the status quo.

* * *

Saoirse

Two weeks after her stepmother's execution, most of the royal court departed for Winterfell. Renly was left as castellan, along with a cadre of servants and those members of court too old, sick, or unimportant to make the trip. Cersei had wanted to remain behind with the royal children, but Robert had threatened to drag her there by the hair if she didn't agree to come. She'd admonished him for that, as starting a journey of this length in a fight with one's spouse was not advisable.

It took the large caravan of servants, luggage, and Westerosi royalty a week and a half to get to the Inn at the Crossroads. Saoirse's gut turned, thinking how cheap a raven would've been and how the money they were spending on the trip probably belonged in Tywin Lannister's pocket. But she had wanted to see Robbie settled in Winterfell and take the necessary detour she would have to take on their way back.

In the midst of all the planning and packing, Saoirse had received her father's ashes back from the Silent Sisters who had embalmed him. They - he - was returned in a jar about a foot high, no taller than her longest dagger. That was all that remained of her father, a man well over six feet tall and well-muscled as a warhorse, now reduced to dust. The sight of the jar depressed her, so she'd told one of her maids to pack it for her.

As she settled in the plain, musty-smelling room she'd been assigned she thought of how to broach the subject of stopping at the Eyrie on their way back with Robert. There was no way she could make it work on the way there, but on the way back she may be able to break off and visit her childhood home. She wouldn't linger for fear of what catastrophe might arise in the capital without her there to control Robert's more wild impulses, but she would do what was necessary to set her father's soul at peace. That peace could only be achieved by tossing his ashes off of the top of the Eyrie.

The mattress was stuffed with fresh hay but the room clearly hadn't been used in a while. The glass window was shut tight and had been for a long while, so she opened it as her maid set about unloading her things. The plan was to rest here for two days before continuing. The next stop wouldn't be until Moat Cailin, and then Winterfell. They were two days ahead of schedule, and should be at their destination within the next four weeks if they kept up the pace.

In the last few weeks, Saoirse had found a new appreciation for shepherds. If herding sheep was any more difficult than herding people, she thought the shepherds of the realm should receive a break on their taxes.

It was late, so Saoirse sat next to the window and let her maid Della Templeton undo her long braid and brush her hair.

"You may retire for the night, Della," she said once the maid finished.

The mousey maid paused, "Are you sure, my lady? Nothing else I can do for you?"

"No. It's been a long day, I will be going to sleep soon." She lied, but she wanted the room to herself for a while. For the last three weeks had been a tempest of people surrounding her, coming and going, and the stress of travel had taken its toll on her. A bath occurred to her, but Della was already gone.

Not a quarter of an hour had passed before a knock sounded at her door. She groaned, as that was not sufficient time to herself, but rose to her feet and opened the door.

"Ser Jaime," she said, rather surprised to find him at her door, "What brings you here?"

"I have a matter to discuss with you, would you mind letting me in?" His green eyes shone in the dim light of the torches. She nodded and stood to the side, opening the door to let her in. This was the first she'd seen of him in the weeks since the trial by combat, save for a few glances in the corridors of the Red Keep. Her thinking was that he needed time to heal after his injuries, so she'd let him alone.

Once she shut and locked the door, she turned to him and took him in completely. He had changed out of his armor, opting for a deep red tunic and black trousers, with a gold belt across his waist. Then she caught sight of the splint that encased his right hand. It was less complicated than it had been, which she took as a promising sign.

"How are your injuries?" she inquired, glancing about the room. "I haven't seen much of you since you won the trial."

"My leg is healed," he explained, "And my hand heals slowly. It's rather...frustrating. But the Maesters seem to think it will heal fully. I'll be able to wield a sword again. Eventually." He held up his broken digits and glared at them.

"That's good news."

"Yes. I really came to return this," he said as he reached up to his neck and removed her favor with one hand, holding it out to her, "and to inquire as to your well-being."

"My wellbeing? Well, let's review shall we? I've been in charge of shipping most of court and seemingly all of their belongings a thousand miles north so Robert can ask Ned to replace me because he wants me to marry! The smallfolk hate me, and everyone in court knows it. Oh, and at the same time worrying that Littlefinger's assassins are waiting around every corner to end my life!" She blurted, moving past him toward the window as she aired her grievances.

He smirked, "He wishes you to marry, eh? Any names in mind?"

Something in his tone sounded suggestive in a light-hearted way.

"Well Willas Tyrell hasn't been able to make another match since he called off our betrothal," she began, keeping one eye on him to watch his reaction. "Perhaps Oberyn if he'd be willing. And if I wanted to seal my spot as Lady of the Vale, there's a distant Arryn...a Hardyng, but he's barely seventeen. It appears I have options." She shrugged. She hadn't put much thought into whom she would marry. There had been too much to occupy her mind in the weeks since.

Jaime shifted his weight to his right leg, "What was it you said about Littlefinger?"

She sighed, pouring herself a goblet of wine and sitting in a chair at the small table, "With him loose, I fear for my life. But I trust Bronson and Hewl and my guards. I also put some of my bannermen around his family's holdings with orders to kill on sight."

"Smart."

"I'm aware," she sipped the red wine, "And since I'm to marry soon, apparently, I've been thinking of resigning as Hand and returning to the Eyrie."

He shifted again, "But...that would mean you'd leave King's Landing?"

Saoirse chuckled uncomfortably, "Yes, of course. There hasn't been an Arryn in the Eyrie since my father was named Hand. I fear the people of the Vale have forgotten who their liege lord is. Or, lady, in my case."

His eyes were dark and downcast, glaring at her feet as she explained her thinking to him. All he replied with was, "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't leave King's Landing." his voice was hard as the steel blade that hung at his side. He had turned his emerald gaze upon her and the intensity of it gave her chills.

She struggled to find words, "A-and why shouldn't I?"

"Because the thought of not seeing you is a thought I cannot bear. Stay in King's Landing."

"King's Landing is the most dangerous place for me to be. Littlefinger has eyes and ears in every nook and cranny of the city," her voice remained calm and impassive, but her mind was reeling. He couldn't bear to not see her? What did that mean? Why would he want her to stay? Their flirtation over the last years surely hadn't meant the same to him as it had to her. At least, that's what she'd always thought.

"Seven hells with Littlefinger, I will protect you. I always have, haven't I?" He gestured about the room, the metal bits of his splint glinting in the torchlight.

"I can protect myself," she insisted, keeping her voice hard.

"If you were sure of that you wouldn't be thinking of fleeing the Red Keep for a place that you haven't called home in fourteen years."

"The Eyrie is my home."

"It won't be if you marry some highborn ponce!"

"Then I'll marry one of the sons of my banners!" She countered his argument, but she couldn't tell why she was still arguing her point. She wasn't even sure of the point she was arguing anymore. She loved him, she wanted to be with him, but she knew that it was damn near impossible. The odds were monumentally stacked against them.

"No you won't!"

"Oh, won't I?" She was getting indignant.

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because you'll marry me," He crouched in front of her chair, his uninjured hand on her knee, "I will go to Robert straight away and ask him to dismiss me from the Kingsguard, my hand is damn near useless anyway. I will forsake all others and give my father the heir that he wants. We can live at Casterly Rock or the Eyrie, if you'd like. I would be your Lord Husband, sworn to protect you until the end of our days. Saoirse? Have I said too much?"

The words had tumbled out of his mouth too quickly for Saoirse to fully understand; and when she did realize what he'd been saying it felt like her head was full of cotton, a dull buzzing behind her ears.

"You haven't…are you serious? Would you really do that? For me?" She sputtered when her brain finally reconnected to her mouth. It was still difficult for her to understand; he had just proposed marriage, he had offered to knock out one of the obstacles in their way.

"After all these years and all that's happened you still find room for doubt." He flashed her his most charming smile and his hand stroked her knee affectionately. Her mouth went dry; she could feel her heartbeat quicken.

"Not doubt. Never doubt," she said quietly before leaning forward and brushing her lips against his. He traced the fingers of his good hand across her cheek, leaving small trails of fire wherever he touched. Moving his hand back into her loose hair he gripped the back of her neck, drawing her closer and deepening the kiss.

Saoirse moved off of the chair and onto her knees in front of him. Both on their knees now she threaded her fingers into his hair, kissing him more urgently as she pressed her body to his. Jaime's hands moved to her shoulder blades, pulling her ever closer. The air around them crackled and the room was suddenly much warmer than it had been. It was all she could do to resist reaching for that gold belt and undoing it. If they were going to be married soon, it didn't matter anyway.

She broke the kiss, resting her forehead on his for she had realized she'd forgotten something rather important.

"Yes, Jaime. I will marry you."

He smirked devilishly, setting her heart ablaze as his lips met hers once again.

* * *

 **Oh my stars! I wonder what would happen next! It would be a shame if something should happen to...derail the situation!**

 **Leave a review if you loved it! Or liked it. Or read it. Thanks!**


	11. Seeing Sense, Seeing Secrets

_Saoirse_

The air in the wheelhouse was thankfully warm. Saoirse could hear the crunch of the wheels against the road and the snorts and whinnies of the vanguard's horses. She could tell the air outside was crisp, even though the sun shined. They were getting closer to Winterfell. Under the advisement of Maester Colemon, she had kept the windows covered so little Robbie could sleep. True enough, the boy was dead to the world on the seat opposite her, his head in Lady Catelyn's lap. She stroked his hair the way a loving mother would, and Saoirse knew he would be well taken care of by his aunt.

Even though the journey was long, Robbie seemed to be doing better than he had been in King's Landing. The fresh air was working wonders for his complexion and appetite - he was eating more now that Saoirse had ever seen him eat. He had suffered a fit while they were stopped at the inn, but it was a mild one.

Her heart felt light at the prospect of Robbie gaining his health, especially in a home where he would be loved and have other children to play with. Lady Catelyn would cherish him and raise him as one of her own, Saoirse was sure of that.

From where they were six weeks ago, both Arryns seemed to have bright futures. Robbie would get the chance to become the little lordling their father always intended him to be, and Saoirse would soon be married to Jaime Lannister. The realm would be close to debt-free, and she could assume her rightful place as Lady of the Vale.

Convincing Robert to let the Kingslayer out of the King's Guard was easier than she thought it would be. The resistance to the idea only came when she'd told him the reason why.

"You said marry. Uniting the East and West could be an advantageous match," she argued, guiding her horse alongside Robert's. They were just approaching Moat Cailin when she'd finally had the time to approach him about it.

"But why _him_ , Sair? You could have your pick of any man in the realm!"

"You know that's not true. And the realm is massively in debt, thanks to you," She reminded him in a crisp but quiet tone. His shoulders tensed as she continued, "Most of which is to Tywin Lannister. If I marry his son, maybe he'll forgive some of that debt."

"Lannister has another son."

Saoirse scoffed, "He could give two shits about Tyrion, it's Jaime he wants as his heir. If you release him from the Kingsguard so he can marry, the old lion would be grateful."

"Grateful enough to forgive millions of gold dragons?"

"Perhaps. One never knows until one asks." She tried to appear nonchalant about the matter, but inside her heart had picked up speed. Jaime had proposed a fortnight ago, but they weren't in the free and clear yet. They had decided that it would be better for Saoirse to approach Robert about Jaime's dismissal as the woman had a better relationship with the King. A raven would be sent that day, depending on the King's answer.

"Saoirse, what makes you so sure that he'll agree to Jaime marrying you? With your history-"

"Then Jaime will still be free to marry, he will simply marry someone else. I'm sure Tywin has someone in mind. He will still get his heir and be thankful for it. Come now, Robert, see sense."

The King pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the road ahead of them, deep in thought. Thought was a foreign look on Robert's features, but she considered it a good sign that he was actually considering the options.

"Fine. I'll let Lannister out of the Kingsguard. Gods help me, Sair, if this plan works I may have to keep you on as Hand," Robert smiled even though both of them knew that was not an option. This trip north had to have a purpose, and most of the realm knew of the King's intentions. To keep Saoirse on as Hand would be political suicide.

They'd sent the raven from Moat Cailin, with instructions for Tywin Lannister to send his reply to Winterfell. Now, as they grew ever closer, Saoirse found herself on edge. It had been a week since they'd left the Neck. They would reach Winterfell in two days if they kept up their current pace. Would the answer be waiting there for her? And - even more important - would it be the favorable answer?

She had also written to Oberyn, apologizing profusely for their absence upon his arrival in the capitol, along with a brief mention that his job as Master of Coin may become much easier in the weeks to come. His reply would also be waiting for her in Winterfell, and she looked forward to reading it.

So much of her life was put on hold until they reached Winterfell. A part of her was glad to have a break from the capitol and the responsibility that weighed her down there, but a much larger part was anxious for their arrival so she could start moving forward again.

The wheelhouse gave a lurch as they pulled to a stop, enough to wake the sleeping boy across from her.

"What's going on?" Robbie asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Saoirse stood, "I'm not sure. I'll go see what's what."

She opened the wheelhouse door and the chilly air almost knocked the breath out of her lungs. Reaching back, she pulled her cloak out of the carriage and wrapped it tightly around herself. The blue wool was lined with a length of white silk embroidered with her family crest that she'd brought back from Dorne. She liked to think that the silk held in the warmth of Dorne, which is what made her cloak so warm.

Approaching a nearby knight she asked, "Why have we stopped?"

"The King orders, my Lady. He spotted a deer in the woods and decided to hunt it," the Knight replied tersely. Saoirse rolled her eyes and thanked the knight before walking toward the front of the vanguard.

Robert was shouting at his poor squire - a young Lannister - while the teen was strapping on his armor. Saoirse approached him.

"You cannot be serious, Robert! Of all the frivolous - "

"Stop your bellyaching, woman. I'm going to get us some venison for supper!" His eyes were bright with impulse, his cheeks and nose red from the chill. Or - more likely - the flagon of wine he'd drunk so far that day.

Saoirse glared at him, "How do you ever suppose we will get to Winterfell when you delay us every chance you get?"

"Why so concerned with the destination, Sair? The journey is what matters!" Robert declared. It was then that Saoirse realized just how drunk the King actually was, and she knew he shouldn't be out hunting in such a state.

She told him as much and he scoffed at her, "Who are you, my fucking mother?" He lifted his leg onto a stool for his squire to attach his greaves, but the move set him incredibly off-balance. Robert tilted forward and would've face-planted into the dirt if Saoirse hadn't caught him.

A few Kingsguard helped right the King's massive form and she had to resist pushing him off of her. He smelled like the ass end of a horse that had bathed in stale wine. "I'm not your mother, Robert, but you are in no condition to sit a horse at the moment. Let alone go chasing after a deer!"

"I quite agree with the Lady Hand, your grace," said Arys Oakheart, one of the Kingsguard who had helped right the King.

"No one asked you, Oakheart, go back to your bloody post!" Robert snapped. He was getting temperamental, which wasn't a good sign. Sir Oakheart bowed and shared a look with Saoirse as he returned to his horse.

"Your Grace, we are two days out of Winterfell. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunity to hunt when we get there, but first we actually have to get there," her tone was clipped and she was getting frustrated. Stupid, hedonistic, impulsive Robert. The man gave no thought as to what awaited her at the other end of this trip - to him it was a gods damned pleasure cruise, and she was done letting him delay her any more than he already had.

"We will get there when I say we will. This whole fucking trip was your idea, anyway. I don't see why you're upset at a delay of a few hours," Robert reasoned, stuffing his arm into his bracer.

"No, I wanted to bring my brother north. You were the one who said let's bring the whole damned court with us!" Her voice was getting tight and sharp. She knew better than to rise to his anger with her own, but she'd been on the road for weeks. She wanted to arrive in Winterfell so she could get a handle on things - up to and including her possible marriage to Jaime. Taking a steadying breath, she tried to calm herself.

"Robert?" A shrill voice sounded from behind her. This one more demanding and authoritative.

Robert's face fell. The excitement in his eyes faded as he gazed upon his wife, who had decided to leave her litter as well. Her presence caught Saoirse off-guard. Cersei usually sent messengers from the safety of the wheelhouse if she wanted to communicate with her husband.

But now here she stood, looking regal with her golden locks styled in the ridiculous updo of the Southron women. Her green eyes stared down her husband.

"What is the meaning of this delay?" She demanded.

"There's a deer. I'm going to hunt it." Robert kept his eyes focused on the buckle of his bracers as he muttered his reply.

"You most certainly are not! Tommen has taken ill and needs to rest."

"He's in a damned wheelhouse!"

" He needs a _Maester_ in a _castle_! He needs to rest in a _bed_! Not a drafty wheelhouse!"

"Woman - !"

"You will not delay this trip further, Robert, not when your son's life is on the line!" the Queen yelled. They'd both been getting progressively louder as they argued. People were starting to take notice.

Robert seethed, his nostrils flaring like the stubborn buck he was while he returned his wife's deadly glare. Saoirse knew better than to get in the middle of them during one of these staredowns. The King and Queen both had formidable tempers.

With a huff, Robert growled out, "Fine. We shall continue on."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Cersei said with a smile, celebrating her victory. She turned on her heel and made her way back to the atrociously large wheelhouse that she and her children rode in.

Saoirse said nothing, but bowed slightly as she also walked away from the King.

* * *

 _Bronson_

The walls of Winterfell were finally in sight, they were no more than a few miles out. He could feel the sighs of relief from the party. It had been a long month for the entire party, himself included. Not only was it the physical strain of riding for days on end, but it was the fact that every mile closer to Winterfell he was a mile closer to losing his Lady.

She had explained the deal she'd proposed to Tywin Lannister to him and Hewl; neither of which were pleased with the idea but they had accepted it. There was nothing they could do. His brother had given him a silent, sympathetic glance when she announced that she had agreed to marry Ser Jaime Lannister, but that was all he'd said on the matter.

The news had felt like a punch to his gut. He knew he'd had little chance with her; he was too close for her to see him as a potential suitor, but some small part of him always hoped. Hoped that she would turn around and see him - really _see_ him - for what he was.

A knight in her service who was deeply, ferociously in love with her.

They passed through the gates of the fortress and it was all anyone could do to stop themselves from cheering. Bronson heard astonished gasps coming from his fellow knights, and the whinging voice of young Lord Robert Arryn coming from the wheelhouse next to him.

The nobles disembarked and greeted one another, taking bread and salt as was custom. Lord Ned greeted Lady Saoirse after embracing the King and Lady Catelyn. The King requested the Northern lord take him to the tombs, and the crowd dispersed.

Lady Catelyn took charge of young Robert, and Bronson and Hewl followed their lady to her rooms, Bronson volunteering to take the first watch shift.

"Bronson," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Would you send a servant for the Maester?"

"Is something wrong, My Lady?"

She smiled at him and shook his head, "No, nothing of the sort. I simply wish to meet him and...see if he has any messages for me."

His stomach clenched as he realized exactly what messages she hoped was waiting for her. "Right away, My Lady."

However, he didn't get a chance to find a servant before a balding old man with a long maester's chain sidled up the corridor toward them.

"Is Lady Saoirse in?" he asked. He had a kind face and spoke with a gentle tone; Bronson could already tell he would do well with the young boy.

"I will tell her of your arrival," Bronson assured him and entered the room fully before he caught sight of Lady Saoirse's bare back, a dressing gown lowered toward the floor.

She turned and yelped, drawing the robe back over herself, "Bronson!"

"I'm sorry, My Lady! So sorry!" he said, closing the door but forgetting to exit.

"Do you not knock anymore?" she demanded angrily, clutching the dark blue robe around herself.

He felt his face flush bright red and he averted his gaze to the floor, "My deepest apologies, My Lady. I meant only to inform you that the castle maester is without."

"Fine. Give me a moment to collect myself, and _knock first_ ," she half-growled at him, her blue eyes swirling into a storm.

"If it helps, My Lady, I did not see anything but your back," he explained as he turned toward the door. A wooden goblet smashed against the doorframe as he exited, and he let out a deep sigh.

"The Lady will be with you in a moment."

XXX

The maester and Lady Saoirse talked late into the night, and once the maester left Ser Joel Weatherton came to relieve him. He was glad of it, as he'd made a complete and utter arse of himself in front of his Lady and was eager to ease his bruised ego in a scalding hot bath.

But before that could happen he needed to stop and check on his horse in the stables. The gelding was a fickle thing, and would surely cause a headache for the poor stable boys if he wasn't brushed just right. Instead of charging a northerner with the trouble, Ser Bronson decided to do it himself. The manual labor would help take his mind off the day, and the fact that Lady Saoirse was now most likely properly engaged to the Kingslayer.

The stables were silent and smelt of horse, but the scent was familiar and comforting to the young knight. He brushed his horse in long, languid strokes, talking lowly to him as he did. He paused as he heard one of the large wooden doors creak open and two sets of footsteps enter.

"What do you mean, you are engaged to be married?" A harsh whisper broke the silence. In the dim of the torches, Ser Bronson could see the back of a woman's cloak and for a second he thought it was Lady Saoirse, but he was quickly proven wrong. Besides, he assessed this woman was at least half a head taller than his Lady.

"Father consented, Saoirse received the letter soon after we arrived."

That voice he would know anywhere; it was the voice of Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and newly-betrothed to his lady. Lead boiled in Bronson's gut. It was really happening now. In time, Lady Saoirse Arryn would become both Lady of the Vale and Lady of the Westerlands. Instead of feeling happy for her, Bronson couldn't help but feel incredibly sorry for himself.

"What about your children?"

Children? The Kingslayer had fathered bastards? He was even less honorable than Bronson had thought. If his Lady knew, she never would have agreed to marry him.

The Kingslayer scoffed, "They have never been mine, not properly. They are yours and yours alone."

"Then be there for them, step in where he has failed!"

"And how long until someone notices that? Be reasonable, woman!"

Their voices were rushed, but now a deadly silence had settled between them. Bronson knew he should've felt badly about eavesdropping so eagerly, but if he could save his Lady from marrying such a man as this it would be well worth it.

"So you're settling for her?" The woman's voice broke the silence, the tension

"No! I love her. I can marry her, I can kiss her whenever I want, I don't have to share her with anyone else!" A slap echoed through the stables and Bronson heard the swish of the woman's cloak along the hay-strewn floor, the door creaking as she left.

From his spot hidden against the wall he prayed to whatever gods there were that the Kingslayer would leave shortly. If the man caught him lurking in the stables it wouldn't end well for either of them.

His prayers were answered a moment later when the Kingslayer sighed heavily and left the stables.

Bronson's mind was racing; he had to tell Lady Saoirse. Keeping something like this from her would only cause her pain later on. The one thing that gave him pause was the vision of his lovely Lady's face crumpling at the news, her heartbreak etching itself in red tear tracks down her cheeks. Could he bear to cause her so much pain? Surely she would never forgive him.

Caught in his quandary, Ser Bronson finished up in the stables and made his way to his appointed chambers.

Sleep would not come easily for the knight.

* * *

 **Hello lovelies! I'm back! So sorry for the delay, but I've got no fewer than three active stories at the moment. Along with you know, life stuff.**

 **Please please please leave me a review and let me know that you're still here!**


	12. Bastards and Broken Things

**Hello my dears! Yes, I'm still alive and I haven't given up on Saoirse yet.**

 **I have added a few faceclaims to my list, just so you know. Ser Hewl is Heath Ledger, and Ser Bronson is Joseph Gordon Levitt.**

 **Thank you for all your reviews and support and for being patient with me. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!**

* * *

 _Saoirse_

'My Sparrow,

Your apologies for your absence upon my arrival in the piss-stenching capital were wholly unnecessary. I know that you did what you could to keep the king here until my arrival, which is truly appreciated. However, picturing you all bundled up in warm furs in the North does provide a tantalizing visual.

My first small council meeting went smoothly, and your notes on your debt reduction plan were more than sufficient to give me the information I need. My brother sends his well wishes and his condolences on the death of your father, along with the hope that you will visit Dorne again someday soon.

For now, my sparrow, the kingdom is well in hand. The king's brother and I get along better than expected. His squire seems to take issue with all of the time Renly and I spend together, bent over a table full of charts and figures. I've invited the young man to join us, but he refuses. Ah, the inexperience of youth.

In short, I await your return like a sailor waiting to see the shore. I have good company in Ellaria and Lord Renly, but I have missed you these last years. The thought of seeing you again, my sparrow, is one that excites every fiber in me. Please don't be long.

Your Viper'

Saoirse couldn't help but smile as she read Oberyn's letter for the fifth time. While speaking in generalities, she was positive he'd made a bedmate out of Renly, much to Ser Loras's chagrin. Funny, she thought, Loras had never seemed the jealous type.

As always, she made sure to read Oberyn's letters in absolute privacy. Ser Hewl stood outside her chamber door while she remained alone inside with her thoughts. Her hips and legs were still sore from the ride and she had begun to dread the ride back south when she remembered the pile of correspondence Maester Luwin had given her the previous night. Seeing the sun and spear sigil imprinted in the orange wax on one of the letters made her heart skip a beat, and she made sure to read it last.

The first letter had been from Renly, detailing the minutes of the last few small council meetings. The second was Tywin Lannister's approval of her marriage to Jaime with the assurances that they would negotiate a dowry on her return to the capital, where she got the distinct feeling he would be waiting. The thought of Oberyn and Tywin Lannister in the same place at the same time made her nervous - neither were known for their even tempers and Oberyn could hold a grudge like no other. It could lead to an explosive situation, but she couldn't worry about that now.

Saoirse stood up and leaned backward, feeling a few satisfying pops from her upper back. With a glance out the window she saw that it was nearly midday and she hadn't yet left her rooms.

"Hewl," she called over her shoulder. The door opened a second later, "Fancy a walk?"

The brunette guard smiled at her and nodded, "Of course, my lady. Might I suggest a cloak? It's rather cold here."

She let out a laugh. It wasn't often that Hewl cracked a joke, but when he did he was dry and sarcastic. All the same, she settled her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders before leading her guard outside.

Their walk led them to the Godswood, a place she'd always wanted to see. When he was fostered at the Eyrie, Ned would speak of Winterfell in surprising detail, like the smoke-darkened beams in the great hall or the shine off of the roofs of the glasshouses in mid-afternoon. His favorite place of which to speak though, was the Godswood. Ned spoke in depth about the size and the silence of the place, along with the fog in the mornings and the hot spring next to the heart tree. Many a night had Saoirse fallen asleep to Ned's stories of Winterfell, and so far she'd found them all to be accurate.

As they passed under the great stone arch, the light chatter she and Hewl had shared came to a stop. The air around them was thicker, still chilled but more humid. She supposed it was due to the hot spring, and followed the thickness of the air right to it, Hewl a few steps behind her.

Saoirse settled next to the steaming pond, her eyes fixed upon the weirwood's face. Sap dripped from its eyes and gave the impression of tears. What a strange thing, she thought, to have a god who weeps.

From behind her she heard Hewl sigh. Looking back at him, she noticed how he nervously shifted his stance from foot to foot, one hand flexing on the pommel of the sword at his hip.

"Is something wrong, Hewl?" she asked, genuinely concerned for his well-being.

"My lady, there is something...something my brother overheard last night that we both think you should hear," Hewl admitted, his steely eyes fixing upon hers. She swallowed. From his tone, what Bronson had overheard was nothing good.

"Tell me. Come, sit," she offered with a gesture, "I wish to know."

Hewl obliged her, crossing his legs and running a hand through his dark waves. As he pushed the locks back, she caught a glimpse of the pale white scar that ran from his chin, down his jaw, and onto his neck. He'd sustained the injury during their trip from the Vale to King's Landing after her father had been named Hand. A pack of shadowcats had attacked and Hewl hadn't hesitated to jump into the fray, even though he was only six-and-ten and not a full fledged knight yet. Bronson, being five-and-ten at the time, had backed Saoirse into a crevice in the mountainside and stood between her and two shadowcats, defending her with his life.

That was years ago now, but when she was sent to Dorne she knew she'd rather have the two brothers go with her than any other knights in the realm. She had grown a strong affection for both Royce brothers. They were more than the guards who saw her to Dorne and Myr - they were her closest friends. Their words held weight with her, and she often sought them out for advice.

Hewl's brow furrowed and he glanced at the ground in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward as if he wanted to disappear within himself. Clearly, he was nervous. He didn't want to tell her, but he felt he had to. In order to coax it out of him, she reached over and put a hand on his forearm.

"Whatever it is, I can take it," she reassured her nervous friend, smiling lightly at him.

Still avoiding her gaze he blurted out, "Ser Jaime has bastard children by a woman at court. He told that woman that he wishes to marry you because he doesn't have to share you."

Saoirse felt the temperature of the air around her drop and the blood in her veins still. Her hand still on Hewl's arm, she retracted it as if she'd touched a flame.

Finally, he turned his face back to her. The look she found there confirmed that he was telling the truth. His hesitation in informing her of this secret doubly confirmed it - she knew he and Bronson were no fans of the thought of her marrying Jaime, but they would never lie to her in order to bring about the end of such an arrangement. The Royces were not particularly good actors, they tended to wear their feelings for all to see. This confession of Hewl's had pained him because he knew it would cause her pain, hence his reluctance to share.

She sputtered, searching for words. Finding none, she allowed the truth of the situation to settle over her. A lump rose in her throat and she found breathing becoming difficult. She didn't like how the humid, chilly air was now creeping under her skin and infecting her bones with the cold. The tickle behind her nose alerted her to the tears that welled in her eyes.

No. She refused to let this affect her in such a way. If Jaime was the father of bastards, so what? All she had to do was send a letter and their engagement would be broken. He could marry someone else and she'd be free. Free of him, free of the lies, free from her duties as Hand. Brushing away the tears, she clenched her jaw and the rational side of her brain took over.

"Do we know who the mother is?" she asked, trying to hide the small crack in her voice.

Hewl shook his head, "No, my lady."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Bronson thinks it a well-kept secret," Hewl replied softly.

Saoirse cleared her throat and rose to her feet; Hewl scrambled to his as well. "Thank you, Ser, I think I would like to continue on alone."

"My lady, if I've upset you - "

"No, I'm fine. I thank you for your candor. I just...need to be alone for a while," she assured him before striding away.

Not wanting to be followed, she ducked into the first open door she could find. The castle was large, boasting many winding halls and secret passages, but Saoirse paid no attention to where she was going. She wandered aimlessly while her mind was preoccupied with the latest bit of news.

Jaime had fathered bastards. While the mother was unknown, she was a woman of court. Plenty of young women with children had come north with them, most notably the royal children, but what made Bronson think she was a woman of nobility? While she couldn't picture Jaime with a scullery maid, it was indeed possible. But she didn't know the familial relations of the servants nearly as well, so she counted them out.

Besides, Jaime's ego wouldn't allow it.

In truth, she couldn't care less which woman had borne his bastards, just that they existed. What was to stop the mother from coming forward once Saoirse and Jaime had married? Was that event exactly what she had been waiting for in order to humiliate him?

Questions like these swirled in her head like a cyclone, each one worse than the last and each one appearing faster and faster until even the corridor was spinning.

No, not the corridor. She felt lightheaded and her vision tilted the world in front of her. She took a deep breath and felt for the wall, leaning against a large tapestry when she found it. It was then that she realized that she'd skipped perhaps a few too many meals over the last few weeks. She hadn't eaten hardly anything for breakfast that morning and hadn't had the thought to ordering dinner the night before.

The anxiety she felt building in her chest wasn't helping, either. Taking a moment, she closed her eyes and evened her breathing like Maester Colemon had taught her. After a few minutes, she felt her thoughts calm and she stood upright once more, intent on finding the kitchens.

As she moved further down the corridor, she heard a muffled thud come from behind the nearest door, followed by a scream. Saoirse pulled one of her knives out of her sleeve and brandished it as she opened the door to the room.

It was dark, the only source of light being a single taper all the way across the room, but it was enough light to see the ass of King Robert Baratheon thrusting between the legs of a serving girl. Luckily, neither had noticed Saoirse's presence, so she quickly shut the door and took off at a run down the hall.

 _Probably siring another bastard,_ Saoirse thought bitterly as she tucked her knife away. Gods knew Robert had enough of those all over the seven kingdoms.

A pang of frustration hit her. _Jaime does too._

The anger built in her chest with every step until it was too much. She let out a low growl, which she let grow into a loud screech that echoed down the hall. Not finished with her display, she threw her fist through a clouded window, shattering the glass.

With that, she made her way back to her rooms.

XXXX

Saoirse hadn't noticed her bleeding knuckles until Della pointed them out when she arrived to get Saoirse ready for the feast that night. She hadn't spoken to anyone since the morning, not even Bronson when he came to guard her door.

"My lady?" Della asked, pulling her from her thoughts, "Did you hear me?"

Saoirse shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. What was it you said?"

"I asked if you wanted me to fetch the maester for your hand?"

Saoirse glanced down at it. All four knuckles were broken open, with a few deep scratches down the back of her hand. Nothing deep enough to warrant stitches, but her entire hand was red with the dried blood. The window she had smashed was made of rather old, brittle glass. She couldn't feel any shards in the wounds, so she didn't think she needed a maester.

She shook her head, "No need. Fetch me a bowl of warm water and I will clean it myself."

The maid obliged and helped Saoirse wrap clean bandages around her hand after she'd scrubbed off the blood. However, the scrubbing had opened a few of the larger scabs and the two women had to replace the bandage once more before the Lady of the Vale was ready to go down to the feast.

She had hoped to avoid Jaime as long as possible, as she was still digesting the information about his fatherhood. However, luck was not on her side that evening.

In grand Westerosi tradition, the highest nobles would be escorted into the feast by the host family. This meant that Robert would walk in with Lady Catelyn, Queen Cersei escorted by Ned, and each of the royal children paired with their opposite sex equivalent. Saoirse hadn't thought she would be included in the pomp and circumstance of it all, so she wasn't expecting a swath of familiar golden hair to appear in front of her.

"Might I have the honor of escorting you into the feast, Lady Hand?" Jaime asked, flashing her a radiant smile that made his eyes crinkle. Her breath caught in her throat. Gods, he was handsome - almost handsome enough to make her forget why she was angry.

Almost, but not quite.

"If you must," she affirmed coldly, keeping her eyes focused on the doors leading into the great hall.

Jaime moved to stand beside her and she took his proffered arm, choosing to focus on her injured hand as it throbbed rather than the clean smell of his skin. The dress she'd chosen for that evening was a blue so dark it was nearly black with silver embroidery along the respectable neckline and sleeves long enough to hide her bandaged hand.

"I hear you've received good news from my father," he commented, trying to engage her in conversation. She knew she should feel butterflies in her stomach, but instead she felt a hard unyielding knot.

"It seems news travels quickly even in the North," she replied, trying to keep the bitter tone in her voice to herself. But Jaime knew her too well, and she felt him tense next to her.

Music erupted out of the great hall as the doors opened and the procession started, thankfully drowning out any more attempts at conversation. Jaime led her to the dais and sat down on her left, Ned on her right. The children were at the lower dais, so she had the honor of sitting next to the Lord of Winterfell. She made sure to stare blankly ahead to avoid being talked to by anyone, and her attempts worked until about halfway through the feast and her third glass of wine.

As she reached for her goblet, her sleeve fell back to her wrist and revealed the bandage to Ned, who happened to be looking down at his meal.

"What happened there?" the northern lord asked, gesturing with his fork, "You didn't have that yesterday."

She smiled breezily at Ned, "I may have smashed a pane of glass this afternoon."

Ned raised an eyebrow in her direction, " _May_ have?"

"No need to worry, I'll have it replaced."

"What's got you so upset that you're smashing glass in my home?" he asked in a lower tone, seeing that she didn't want to draw attention to it.

"We can talk about it later," she deflected, her tone also low as she prayed that Jaime didn't overhear. The golden knight wouldn't be so easily placated with her deflections as her old friend would be. He would likely drag her away from the table and demand answers. When his demands didn't work, he would try coaxing them out of her with his mouth-

She stopped that line of thinking before it took her to a place she no longer wished to go to.

As soon as the dinner portion was over and the musicians started to play, Saoirse excused herself from the table. Tonight she didn't feel like dancing and making merry.

Tonight, she wanted to be alone with her knives.

It had been forever since she'd practiced properly with them; she hadn't had the time during the trip up the Kingsroad, nor had she the privacy. But now, with the entire vanguard and the citizens of Winterfell occupied with ale and music and food she was sure to find the tiltyard empty.

Her breath clouded in the cold night air, but she relished in the feel of it against her skin as she dragged a few mannequins into a line. From ten paces, she hit each one dead center. From fifteen, she managed to hit all three in some capacity. From twenty, she faltered - one of her knives whizzing past the head of one of the mannequins and embedding itself in a wooden pole behind it.

She cursed, but went to retrieve the knife.

"That was quite impressive, my lady," a voice said from behind her. She turned and met the eyes of a young man with dark hair and distinctly Stark features. Despite never having met him, she knew who he was instantly.

Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell.

Apparently this was a day of bastards.

She yanked the knife out of the pole rougher than necessary, not sure whether her ire was spiking because of his bastard lineage or because he had been watching her without her knowledge.

"Don't you know it's not polite to sneak up on people?" she asked rhetorically, pushing past him to get back to the twenty paces position.

"Of course, my lady. I'm sorry. I was only coming to practice with my longsword," he explained, his pale cheeks turning pink. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

The young man shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his tunic, his shoulders hunching in. She may not know much about him, but Saoirse could recognize a kicked dog when she saw one. And this boy was one of them.

Seeing the hurt in his eyes, Saoirse nodded, "I know. I apologize for snapping at you, Jon Snow. It's been a...tiring day."

With the last two words she flicked her knife at the third mannequin, hitting it in the neck. Jon's eyebrows shot up and his dark eyes widened.

"Do you mind if I watch, my lady?" he asked, a hesitant tone in his voice.

Saoirse flashed a smile at him, "Of course not."

A good half hour passed with her tossing the knives and Jon watching, asking questions about technique and strategy - especially when she started adding in a few tumbles.

But after that half hour, her arms were beginning to lose feeling and the cuts on her hand had reopened and bled through the bandage. Perhaps she should see the maester about a few stitches.

"Where did you learn such a skill?" Jon asked as she tucked her knives away, hidden on her person as usual.

"I started with knives in Dorne, but I really honed my skill in Myr," she explained. It had been a long time since she'd thought about her time across the Narrow Sea, but she didn't wish to elaborate on it at the moment.

"Do you know any other weapons?" This boy was full of questions, so she countered with one of her own.

"Did you know you were named after my father?"

Jon swallowed and nodded, "Yes, my lady. My lord father speaks of him often. I'm sorry for your loss."

Saoirse bit her bottom lip and nodded, "Thank you, Jon. You know, I could teach you a few tricks if you'd like."

He blushed slightly and raised a hand to the back of his neck, "Thank you, My Lady, but I think I'll stick with the longsword."

She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a very intoxicated dwarf roaming into the yard. Saoirse took the opportunity to slip away; she'd had her fill of Lannisters for the evening, even if Tyrion was the most agreeable one at the moment.

Following the smell of raven shit, she eventually made her way to the Maester's tower and was lucky enough to find the older gentleman in his room. She explained the situation to him - leaving out the finer details - and asked for his assistance, which he was more than happy to grant.

As he poured wine over the wound to sterilize it they made polite chit chat, having talked over much of her main concerns the previous evening.

Their chatter ended when Lord Stark entered the room, one of his household knights in tow. Had he always had a bodyguard while in his own castle, or was it the presence of Lannisters that had made him so anxious?

"Ah, Saoirse," he said, brow furrowing in slight surprise, "I thought you'd be here."

"It seems that the wounds I inflicted upon myself were more severe than originally thought," she dismissed lightly, even as the maester sterilized a wickedly curved needle.

"Is there something you needed, My Lord?" Maester Luwin asked, "This won't take too long."

"I was hoping to speak with Lady Arryn, if you don't mind. Jory, wait outside. Make sure we are not disturbed." The knight bowed and made his way out of the room.

"To the matter at hand," Ned started, fixing his gaze on Saoirse. She couldn't help but smirk at him - even after all this time he looked at her as he did in the Eyrie. Amusement mixed with suspicion graced his Stark features, as if she were always up to something. When they were all young, Saoirse and Robert usually were up to something, so the look was justified.

Only now the look had spent too long in the North; there was a chilly air radiating from the once warm and brotherly look.

"You mentioned smashing a window?" He asked, his tone leading her. The maester sunk the needle into the back of her hand and she winced, but did not cry out.

"Yes, I did," she admitted through gritted teeth.

"May I ask why?" He put his hands on his hips, looking ever the father figure.

"Many reasons. This day has been a chain of events I would rather not share in the company of others," she said, glancing at the man sewing her skin back together. The older man didn't seem affected by her comment as he moved onto the medium-sized gash on her hand. It would be no more than five stitches total, he assured her, and wouldn't scar too horribly. Not that she cared overmuch about scars. Indeed, she thought scars added character to a person.

"If you trust me, you can trust Luwin," Ned commented.

She did trust Ned, and even though she'd only met him the previous day she had begun to trust Luwin as well. Not only was he more amiable than Maester Colemon, he seemed more experienced and competent. He would have her brother's condition well in hand by the time she returned to the capitol.

Still, Saoirse sighed, feeling the fatigue of the day both physically and emotionally. "Fine. This morning one of my most trusted guards told me that Jaime Lannister has fathered bastards off of a woman at court. I know not who she is or how many, but seeing as I am to marry him upon our return to King's Landing, you can see how this would upset me."

Ned remained silent, but she saw Luwin's eyebrows shoot up to where his hairline used to be.

"I was roaming the hall pondering the matter when I found King Robert...intimately engaged with a serving girl. That was when I put my fist through a pane of glass," she relayed her story to the two men. "I'm sick of him fathering bastards and leaving them behind. I'm sick of his lack of interest in ruling, although he has gotten a bit more attentive lately...I guess I'm just frustrated with this whole nonsense."

"What nonsense?" Ned asked gently. He'd always been an excellent listener. That trait was one of the reasons he was such a fine Lord.

"Living at court. Dealing with all of the stresses that come as Hand and then on top of it being expected to make myself a match because...because my father isn't around to do it," her nose prickled but she willed the tears away, "Trying to make Robert a king worthy of his rule. Being lied to and manipulated and checking over my shoulder all the time."

Ned smirked, "You make the job of Hand sound difficult."

"Don't try to be cute, Ned," she said. She'd meant her words to be cutting, but by the end of her sentence she was smiling. Gods, she had missed him. "What say you on the matter?"

"You say you do not know the identity of the mother?" he asked, something in his eyes darkening. It was then that she realized he was the father of a bastard as well, much to his own shame. Who better to ask?

"No one does," she confirmed.

"Then my advice to you is to do nothing. If, once you are married, the mother comes forward you shall deal with her then."

"But how am I to marry a man who has multiple illegitimate children?" she asked, more to herself than to Ned.

He cleared his throat and took a step toward the door, "Better men than Jaime Lannister have fathered bastards, Sair."

"Of course, I apologize." Jon Snow's distinctly Stark face swam before her eyes. His mother must've been a great beauty in order to entice Ned into her bed.

"I was lucky that Lady Catelyn was willing to forgive me. Now she and I have five children, a strong keep, and, well…"

"You love each other." Saoirse finished for him. Even after all this time, he was still bashful about admitting that he loved his wife. And it was clear in the way the two interacted, even a blind man could see their deep affection for one another.

"Aye, we do." Ned nodded, casting his eyes to the ground. "Do you love him? The Kingslayer?"

"Don't call him that," she snapped at him. The maester had finished his stitches and bandaged her hand, which now felt tight with pain. She couldn't tell if it was the late hour, the twinge in her hand, or hearing Ned use Jaime's unsavory moniker that had her on edge. Perhaps it was all three. The maester's candles were beginning to burn low and she rose to her feet, thanking the old man for his service and pointedly ignoring Ned's question.

"Would you like some milk of the poppy, Lady Hand?" the maester asked and she declined.

"No, thank you. I should like to return to my room for the night," she said as she brushed past Ned to the door and opened it. She paused in front of the Northern Lord, "Thank you for your advice, Ned. I think you'd make an excellent Hand."

And with that, she descended the staircase and disappeared into the chill night air.

* * *

 **Take a second and put your thoughts in the little box below! I'll love you forever if you do!**


	13. When Doves Cry

**Hey Hi Hello lovely readers! So sorry for the delay in getting you this chapter, but you know...life happens and I've been working on more original fiction - I've even submitted a piece to a few literary magazines so I got that goin' for me.**

 **Anyway, here's the latest chapter! Thank you so much for the continued support and the likes, follows, reviews! You're amazing!**

 **Chapter 13 here we go!**

* * *

 _Saoirse_

Without her typical duties to occupy her, Saoirse found herself exploring every inch of the keep over the next few weeks. She'd been through the Godswood a number of times; she'd gone down to the crypts and visited Starks long dead. She'd even managed to find the kitchens for a late night snack or two.

Saoirse was not fond of having so much free time - it left her too much time to think dark thoughts. Specifically, how she was going to handle the Jaime situation. No marriage pact had been signed just yet, so she could still back out if she wanted to. But that was the sticking point; did she want to?

He had fathered bastards, that was true enough. She'd kept an eye out for suspiciously Jaime-esque children among the courtiers over the last few weeks and had come up with nothing. But he hadn't claimed them and the mother hadn't come forward. Ned was correct in his advice; the secret was well-kept and not in need of her immediate attention. What did deserve her attention was what to do with this information and how to approach Jaime with her knowledge.

This day she walked with Bronson at her heels through the Godswood. It seemed to be the place her feet led her most, as it was quiet and secluded and the warmest area outside the castle walls.

The trees rustled overhead and she looked up; the sound was much too large for a bird. Up on the lowest branch sat Robbie and Bran side by side.

"What are you two doing up there?" she asked in the best impression of a motherly voice she could manage. She just ended up sounding cross.

"Bran's teaching me to climb!" Robbie's voice didn't warble as usual. He looked at her, his large eyes glinting with excitement and brightened by the exercise.

The two boys had become inseparable since Robbie's fits had subsided. He'd only suffered one since entering the castle, and Maester Luwin was able to calm him before it got too intense. Bran had approached Robbie cautiously after that, heeding his mother's warning about the other boy's health. But Robbie had picked up a wooden sword and to the best of his abilities - which were few - swung it at Bran.

The two cousins were fast friends, and Saoirse had let herself be glad of that. It seemed the North was exactly what Robbie needed, not some overbearing mother. In the last weeks he had gained nearly a stone and looked healthier than he ever had. All the exercise he got with Bran was helping him; their father had been right to want him to train. It seemed now that the boy could become a half-decent fighter before it was time for him to take the title of Lord of the Vale.

"Be careful, then. Don't climb too high!" she cautioned, waiting for their joint responses before walking away.

"The young Lord Arryn is looking well," Bronson commented, voicing her earlier thoughts.

Saoirse hummed her agreement as she took a turn, exiting through another archway and coming upon an old, abandoned tower. Half the roof was gone, burned up in a fire before Ned was born, leaving the skeletal wooden remains of the rafters in its place. The structure looked sturdy enough, and could easily be fixed and used for a scout tower. She'd voiced this thought to Ned, who simply waved the idea away, claiming that most in the keep thought the tower to be haunted anyway.

As she looked up at it, she could understand their superstition. The air around the tower seemed to be made of shadows, and she did not wish to linger here long. A chill wind blew, selfishly stealing away her warmth, and she shivered.

"Shall we go inside, My Lady?" Bronson asked and Saoirse nodded, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

He looked as he always did, his silver armor shining even on a cloudy day as this. Bronson took great pride in his appearance, unlike his brother whose armor was dented and scratched. To that end, he'd also become fond of a certain type of pomade made in Myr while the three of them were visiting, and Saoirse made sure that he always had a supply of it. She could smell it now on the breeze; sandalwood and rose, a decadently romantic scent.

He wore no helm today, and the chill air would be blowing his hair all about his face if not for the Myrish pomade. The dark hair gleamed as she turned to face him fully. He seemed tense about something, but she couldn't figure out what. His grey Royce eyes avoided looking at her, instead looking at something over her right shoulder.

She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong when a hand on her elbow made her jump and snap her head to the left. Who dared lay a hand on her without announcing themselves? And why hadn't Bronson said anything?

She knew the answer before she saw his face. It was Jaime, a beseeching look in his emerald eyes. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bronson's posture tense and his hand go to his sword.

"Ser Jaime," she said as she wrenched her arm out of his grasp, "don't you know it's rude to grab ladies without their knowledge or consent?"

"My apologies, Lady Saoirse, I didn't mean to startle you. I wish to speak with you." With a pointed look at Bronson, he added, "Privately."

Her guard's hand went to his sword and his eyes darkened, but Saoirse put a hand out to stop him. "No need for that, Ser Bronson. I can well handle myself."

"Would you like me to stay near, My Lady?" he asked, ever diligent in his duties.

She looked over at him and shook her head, her long braid tht she'd pulled over one shoulder falling back. "No. You are dismissed for the day."

Bronson paused, but gave a reluctant nod and stiffly turned away from her. The sound of his armor clanking grew quieter with his retreat and she was swept into the tower by Jaime.

As if to appear gentlemanly, he went up the narrow wooden staircase first. Saoirse rolled her eyes at his small chivalry and thought about making a run for it, but no. This conversation would have to happen sooner or later, and they were alone now. A chance like this should not be wasted. Even as she reasoned with herself, she felt her palms begin to sweat and her stomach start to churn.

This wasn't going to be easy.

Jaime forced open the door at the top of the stairs and she made her way inside. As suspected, the room at the top of the chilling tower showed all the hallmarks of neglect; dust covered everything, broken beams rested against the walls and floors. No one had been up here in years. Probably wise, she thought as the wind outside shifted and she caught the smell of mildew. The floor underneath her feet groaned with every step.

Jaime closed the door and turned toward her, not moving from his spot. Maybe he was afraid she would bolt, which she very much wanted to do now.

Instead, she put on an air of annoyance and moved toward the window, looking at the forest beyond. "Well?"

"Well?" He echoed, crossing his thick arms over his chest. Today he wore no armor, only a fine tunic of the deepest green that made his emerald eyes all the more noticable.

She mirrored his stance, crossing her arms underneath her thick cloak. "You wished to speak privately?"

He nodded, "I wish to know why you've been so taciturn and cold towards me. A fortnight ago you agreed to marry me."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

Saoirse took a steadying breath, letting the cold air of the north reach into her lungs and lend her some clarity. "I know, Jaime. I know what you are. Hewl told me everything."

"And what am I?" He shifted his weight back on one leg, and looked at her from under his brow.

"A lying bastard-siring kingslayer with no honor," she spat out, hoping the words would be as much of a slap as she meant them to be. She wanted him to recoil, to look at her as a mouse would a falcon heading toward them talons first. With those words, she wanted to inflict upon him as much hurt as he had inflicted - albeit unknowingly - on her.

Instead, he chuckled. "Tell me what you really think of me."

Saoirse felt her ire rise. Here she was, flinging insults at him and accusing him of a horrid misdeed and he _laughed_?

"I do not jest! I know that you fathered bastards off of a woman in court! I know that you've been having an affair with her for years! I know that you only wanted to marry me because then you would be Lord of Casterly Rock, not an aging member of the Kingsguard with a mangled hand."

His demeanor changed suddenly and he took a step toward her, flailing his arms about. "You know I could give a shit about titles! I've wanted to marry you for years but you were always off traveling the world and fucking the Viper and a Myrish merchant and gods know who else!"

There it was. She'd always known the jealousy that lingered inside him. He could drown in it for all she cared, let him feel as lost and angry as she did. "I'm glad you got that off your chest. If you'll let me go, I'd quite like to stay at least a castle's length away from you from now on. Congratulations, you're free to marry whomever your father wants for you."

As she pushed past him he gripped her upper arm and used her own momentum to swing her around. His warm hands held her upper arms tightly, almost to the point of pain, and his green eyes were wild with desperation.

"I love you, Saoirse. The timing is finally right and you're letting one little thing stand in our way?"

"One little thing? Are you insane? I am so sick of all the secrets and lies and cover ups! I am not cut out for this!" Saoirse shook herself out of his grasp, "As soon as I make myself another match, I'm going to Robert and handing in my resignation."

To prevent him grabbing her again, she moved quickly to the door. She pulled, but it didn't budge. Trying again, harder this time, she managed to unstick it from the rotting door jamb.

"Saoirse," he half-whispered, his tone low, his voice tired and sad. She paused, but didn't turn back to look at him. Looking back at him now was a horrible idea. A traitorous part of her wanted to go back and pull him to her - to feel his warmth against her and kiss their problems away.

But that wasn't possible. Not anymore.

She remained rooted to the spot. "What?"

"The first time I tell you I love you and you're walking away from me, talking of breaking off our betrothal?" Her nose started to prickle and she felt like she was going to heave. It was indeed the first time he had told her he loved her - that either of them had said the word aloud.

"I thought I loved you. I...very much wanted to marry you," her voice cracked under the weight of what she felt. "But I just have to forget that now."

Picking up the front of her dress and cloak, she ran down the stairs. Once outside she took another deep breath, this one much shakier than the last as hot tears filled her eyes. She looked up at the sky, willing them away with all her might, but still they fell. Using her sleeve, she wiped them away and started walking toward the entrance of the godswood at a brisk pace.

What had she just done? She'd broken the heart of the man she loved, and over what? One little secret? Surely their relationship could survive one little secret. Over the sound of her pounding heart she heard her father's voice, clear as if he were alive and standing next to her now.

"As high as honor," she whispered to herself. Those were her family's words. Save for her half-brother and a distant cousin, she was the only Arryn left to keep those words alive, to keep the words close to her heart. Even if that heart was ashes inside her chest at the moment.

Jaime having bastards was not honorable. He was not worthy of her house, her lands, her words. Using such logic, she probably wasn't either, but she would work to be. At that moment, she made that vow to herself.

The entrance of the godswood was in sight when she heard a thick 'snap' and a child's shout. Saoirse turned, frantically searching for the source of the noise.

What greeted her was the sight of a boy's body crashing to the ground. Without a moment's hesitation she ran over, praying to all the gods there were that it wasn't Robbie. But the tangle of limbs she'd seen fall was much too small to be Bran.

"Robbie! Robbie!" Saoirse shouted, falling to her knees next to him. He had fallen in a heap, his legs crossed awkwardly and one of his arms hanging at an alarming angle.

"Oh gods, oh gods," she murmured as she assessed the damage. The dirt below him was turning dark and she put a delicate hand on his shoulder, turning him slightly to better assess the damage done. "Bran, Bran! Fetch the maester! Quickly!"

Robbie's chest was the source of the bleed; it had connected with a thick root sticking out of the ground. He was deathly pale and Saoirse could feel the panic rise in her chest. Not him, not sweet little Robbie. He was _better_ , the north was _making_ him better - he couldn't die yet.

"I'm sorry!" Bran's voice shouted from behind her, "He wanted to climb higher, I swear I tried to stop him!"

"Bran, go!" she screeched, all composure lost. Saoirse heard the boy run away and twisted her head around like an owl, hoping to see someone, anyone else. She knew she could lift her brother, but didn't know if she should. His injuries were so bad…

"Saoirse?" a tiny voice said and Robbie's eyes fluttered open. She grabbed her brother's small hand.

"I'm here, Robbie, you took a fall. A very bad fall," she tried to explain, but she could see fully now the damage to his chest. It appeared to be caved in; there was nothing she could do. Blood and dirt covered his tunic, and she saw a sharp ridge of bone sticking out from underneath the blue fabric. The sight made her gag, but she hid it from him.

"I see mother…" he breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. The chest wound sucked and his whole body shuddered - then there was no more.

"No," she said, finding all of his pulse points but feeling nothing. "No!"

Tears and grief blinded her as she heard heavy footfalls approaching. She rose to her feet and stumbled a few feet away from her brother's body and felt her stomach empty itself of its contents before she collapsed.

The last thing she remembered was Bran Stark's direwolf tilting its head down at her before raising it in a mournful howl.

* * *

 **Whoa. Heavy stuff. Let me know what you thought in a review!**


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